The Colour of Magicka
by Fantaisie-Impromptu
Summary: Follow the chronologically-compatible-with-the-main-questline events that bring together a group that can't actually be trusted with safety scissors; let alone the fate of Cyrodiil.
1. Stuff Just Happens, What the Hell

Disclaimer - I don't own **anything **(world, known oblivion Npc's)... Except the stuff that I do own (My original characters, my bad sense of humour).

Written for a very dear friend of mine with whom I can harmoniously share an Xbox and a copy of Oblivion. That's _without fighting._

A number of characters that will be portrayed here are solely his. I do, however, have full permission to do whatever I like with them. *Evil Grin*

My Genre-tag type thing is also not entirely accurate. As well as Adventure/Romance (Currently without the romance, I'm getting to it Dammnit! Just wanted to tag it as romance so that people can kind of guess the reasons why this might be tagged 'M') there is also a touch of parody, a dash of angst and a sprinkling of friendship.

I greatly appreciate feedback of any kind. Constructive reviews are very much loved, but I also love it if people just drop a line to say they have enjoyed what I've written. Or even to tell me that I fail as a writer, have no talent whatsoever, am an embarassment to the sacred art of fanfiction... It's all good stuff. Makes me feel as if I'm not writing into a vacuum.

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_She awakes. The first thing that she sees, are her hands. They are paler than she can recall. She chooses to ignore her torn and bloodied fingernails. It is a path through her fragmented memories that she does not want to take. Or perhaps she can no longer remember the way, even if she wanted to. Awareness seeps in at around the same rate as the terror. She trembles. The urge to flee or to cower is almost overwhelming. But, for now, she remains still._

_Cautiously, she reaches out, fingers scrabbling ineffectually for a hold on something. What, precisely, seems of little importance. They find a thin layer of fouled straw, and beneath that is cold stone, slightly slick in the damp. She whimpers as her eyes begin to adjust to the gloom._

"_Awake are you?" a voice floats across her consciousness. That voice needed no accompanying expression in order to give a bitter taste to its nasty little messages. It_ sneered _at her, all by itself._

_Were those shackles around her wrists?_

"_What? No screaming? Crying? Begging? Thank the Nine Divines! All that raving really did make you a most _tedious _cellmate."_

_She crawls. Outstretched arms feel only more cold stone. Walls. Walls all around._

"_Really, with all that fuss you've been making, anyone would have thought you were innocent."_

_Dim light casts the shadow of bars across her face._

"_Well I know differently!" She recoils as she hears him throw himself against the bars. "There's blood on your hands! I can smell it. The stench of it! Is it the guilt that sends you the nightmares?"_

_Her eyes threaten to grow hot with tears, but some little spark of resolve will not allow her to spill them. She makes no sound; she doesn't want the_ filth_ to hear her._

"_Oh_ hush _darling._ _Don't cry now. You've been_ so _brave." He drawls mockingly. "It will all be over soon. Did you know that they're coming to kill you? Oh yes. I think I hear footsteps now, in fact."_

_The shadows in her cell shift as the guttering torchlight grows nearer. She can no longer take it. She rises, trembling, to her feet. With a primal scream she flings over a small wooden table that is probably intended for her use. The pottery atop it shatters into fragments as it falls. The shards litter the floor, scattered amongst the bones… There are bones in her cell. Actual human remains. The screams tear themselves from a throat that is raw from the crying, tears flow unchecked as she rakes her nails across her thighs, mindless of the pain. His jarring laughter is the only thing that penetrates her clouded mind._

"_You're going to_ die_._"

-

It was on the third Morndas of Heartfire, a day glorious enough to make a skooma addict surface from his den (Well, probably enough to make him open the window for a couple of seconds, at least), that a triumphant band of knights made their arrival at the gates of the Imperial city market district. The sun glinted cheerfully off of their tastefully shiny armour, and equally shiny hair. And, because in these times the concept of 'cruelty to animals' was mostly thought of as telling a bear that it's mother was fat, _before_ you slaughtered it with a rusty kitchen knife and brought it's skin home as a trophy, no one really minded the disembodied Minotaur head that the youngest member was dragging behind him. Even if it was attracting the flies. No one was really watching it anyway. Most eyes were on the leader of this assortment of knights.

Sir Julian Artellian did, after all, tend to attract attention. Taller than most Imperial men, with regal bearing and rippling pectorals, he was the type of man who could inflict orgasms with his smile. He strode purposefully, but did not neglect to display the requisite warmth and approachability for the people. Tousled blond hair, a glowing tan and a cloak that billowed dramatically around his ankles added 'windswept and interesting' to the impression. In short, he was, more or less, exactly what was expected of a dashing knight and renowned hero. Were you to actually ask about what 'brave deeds' he and his company had performed, you would probably receive a lot of blank stares and uncomfortable silence in response. However, that wasn't really _the point._

With an offhand gesture and a clearing of the throat, he brought them to a halt in the market square.

"Well, men. You have done your duty, no man could have asked more of you. So shall our deeds be remembered eternally! Now! …Does anyone know where the tavern is?"

This was met with a roar of appreciation and approval. And, evidently, all of them _did _know where the tavern was located.

"Myself and Elion here," he clapped an arm around the shoulder of the scrawny man lugging the Minotaur head behind him, "Will join you all once we exchange our spoils for gold. Pay will be divided immediately on our return."

Another cheer arose from the knights, who, without any further encouragement, were well on their way to the aforementioned tavern. Elion hung back morosely. The Minotaur head was bloody heavy! And, as tradition decreed, _he_ would be the one to have to comb the city for someone who actually _wanted_ a nice, soon-to-begin-the-process-of-decaying head while Julian signed autographs or whatever it was he did. He sighed a martyred sigh and resumed dragging.

-

_There was a squealing of rusty hinges. A dull clang marked in her mind that the door had swung fully open. She did not raise her eyes from their place on the floor. She would accept her sentence with dignity. She wasn't convinced that she wanted to live, at least not all that much, anyway._

"_What is a prisoner doing here?"_

"_This cell was supposed to be kept empty, exactly for this reason!"_

_It was curiosity that made her raise her eyes. So they weren't here for her? Then why had they come?_

_There were three who looked like guards, and behind them…_

_Even in her current state, she knew the Emperor Septim when she saw him. For a moment, his eyes met hers. _

"_I know you." He muttered gently, a slight frown crinkling his brow._

"_Emperor, I strongly advise that we make all haste." The woman in armour spoke, a little harshly, as she regarded the prisoner. "I would be failing in my duty if I allowed a murderer to detain you from your escape."_

"_No, not a murderer." His voice was firm and his gaze solemn._

_There was something magnetic about the man. She stood shakily, not wanting to cringe and cower before him, inclining her head respectfully, trembling with joy at his profession of her innocence._

"_My Lord." It was little more than a whisper, but she was sure that he heard her._

_Scraping of stone against stone sounded as one of the guards opened what seemed to be a secret passage. Damp air emanated from the opening. The sound of steady drips of water, the promise of mould and vermin, did nothing to detract from the elation this possibility of freedom offered. Her eyes misted over with a quiet longing._

_The emperor turned to this opening, his guards just before him. But before stepping over the threshold, he turned back, and motioned for her to follow._

-

Julian sauntered casually through the hordes of city-dwellers as he surveyed the wares of the street merchants that today lined the streets of the Imperial City. He had little interest in browsing and less in paying for anything, but the city relaxed him. And occasionally the merchants had attractive daughters. Today however, as far as he could see at least, there didn't seem to be any decent prospects. He gave a mildly disappointed sigh.

Elion wouldn't be too long selling off all of that junk they had looted from the ogres. The Minotaur had been a bit of a surprise. If it hadn't fallen down that ditch when it had, they might have encountered some difficulties there. It did make a great trophy though.

From what the rumours said, there had been some recent troubles down in Kvatch. Big, firey gates of doom and destruction, from what he could gather, spewing forth monsters, which in turn, were wreaking havoc.

Just the type of thing they should be seen to be getting involved in. After all, Kvatch was so far away, that by the time they got there the problem would most likely have been dealt with. He could stop off at his family's house in Skingrad on the way there too. Evil, monster-spewing gates of fire were bound to be an exaggeration, but he was sure they could craft some pretty impressive stories out of the rumours. They would get a heroes farewell - everyone would want to aid the brave young souls off to battle the spawn of the netherworld in far-off Kvatch – and they would barely have to lift a finger. He was just checking his hair in a silverware merchant's wares, comfortable in the security of his future plans, when a young woman came careening into him. She rebounded off of his armour with a soft 'oof', landing splayed on the ground before him.

She was slight, built almost like a young boy. An elf. Her wide blue eyes had a hunted look to them. Julian gathered himself up, assuming a look of concern as he offered her his hand.

"Please pardon me, madam. It was most ungracious of me not to –"

"There she is!" A highly agitated Nord merchant elbowed his way through the throng of bystanders, his eyes fixed intently on the young elven woman. Triumph lit his features. "She's the filthy thief casing jewellery from my store!" He seemed to be addressing the brutish Imperial guard that was trailing behind him, weapon drawn.

The Nord brought his face close up to that of the cowering girl, grabbing her wrist in one of his callused hands "I'll have you thrown in the Imperial dungeons until you rot, scum!" He roared, dragging her to her feet.

Ever the one to step in to defend a damsel in distress, (especially seeing as there was an audience) Julian stepped forward, wrenching the man's arm so that he released his grip on the elf, and placing a hand threateningly on the pommel of the silver sword that hung at his hip.

"Excuse me sir!" he posed haughtily, all flames and righteous fury. "I may know nothing of the crime this young lady has allegedly committed, but it cannot make man-handling a woman acceptable!"

The man largely ignored him, instead speaking a few hushed words to the Imperial Guard. Without waiting for any more of a signal, the guard advanced threateningly on the woman.

The girl's eyes grew wide in fear as she lunged behind Julian with a yelp, sinking to her knees as she did so.

"Please help me sir! I haven't stolen anything, I swear it to you!" she cried earnestly.

For a moment Julian stalled, undecided. And then her eyes began to well up with tears. Her voice was lower, husky, when she next spoke.

"I don't understand this. I don't want to go to prison." She wavered, trembling. "I'm innocent!" At this last, she grabbed his hand pleadingly. "Please!"

Now without doubt, Julian drew his sword with a knightly flourish.

"I will not allow you to arrest this woman!"

The guard paused, evidently baffled. It appeared that this type of thing didn't happen to him often.

"Umm, does that mean she's resisting arrest?" He sheathed his weapon in order to pull a dog-eared manual from somewhere inside his chest plate. Squinting at the pages he ran an uncertain finger down a list that Julian couldn't quite get a glimpse of. "Because it says here that she can choose either to go to jail, in which case I express mocking disappointment that she did not resist arrest, or she can _actually_ resist arrest in which case I have to kill her…"

"What? Even if she, oh I don't know… Stole a radish?"

This was territory the guard was familiar with.

"Yup!" he folded up the manual with a satisfied smile, re-drawing his sword with a businesslike efficiency.

"But I'm resisting arrest on her behalf! And I have reason to do so! You have no proof of this woman's guilt!"

The guard's lips moved slowly as he repeated the word. "Proof?"

The Nordic merchant rejoined furiously, gesticulating wildly, "You doubt my word? This is ridiculous! You aren't listening to this… this bastard!"

The guard stood very, very still for a few awkward moments before pronouncing, "I could be wrong… But I think he has a point."

Julian inwardly breathed a sigh of relief as the guard once again took out the little book, his tongue poking out at the side of his mouth, as he made alterations with a stub of pencil. He now seemed entirely oblivious to Julian and the elf, and began to idly wander away, the still-raging merchant ranting ineffectually at his retreating back.

"So! What was your name again?" The knight dusted off his hands with a self-satisfied smirk as he turned to help the girl up.

Her head snapped up to meet his eyes with an apologetic smile, hand located somewhere in the nether regions of her bodice.

"Oh, silly of me to forget to tell you! My name's Renni." She said desperately, attempting to shuffle away from the pondering Julian. He lifted her hand, now with more than an inkling of suspicion. His thoughts were confirmed as the offending hand, upon reaching the surface, was clutching a selection of jewels.

Julian spluttered, horrified and more than a little embarrassed.

"You _are_ a thief!" he roared, "And a liar as well!" He attempted to catch her arm, but she danced away from him in a singular fluid motion that replaced the jewels in their previous place of residence, and unbalanced him enough that he stumbled, entirely missing his target.

"I told you a thousand times, sir, if I told you once! My _affections_ are _not_ 'for sale'!" the thief improvised loudly enough that the surrounding crowd glared accusingly at the confused Julian, shuffling in an unconscious attempt to shield the girl from his view. It only took a moment and she was gone.

-

_She gasps, fear's paralysing grasp taking hold as she stumbles on stone that is slick with moss, damp, and blood. With a savage growl, the man named Baurus plunges the strangely curved sword between the plates in the assassin's conjured armour. A strangled cry emits from the soon-to-be dead man, as thick blood gouts from the wound in his side. With purpled fingers he clutches at it, trying to staunch the blood-flow. His efforts are futile. Sinking to his knees, he moans._

_It will probably only be a short time before he dies._

_But the emperor steps forward, his sword drawn. He is calm, though a weary sadness pervades. He performs the final act of mercy for this man that would have seen him dead, and it seems to be with genuine regret that he cleans his blade upon the man's robe, for the armour had shimmered and vanished as the assassin's head had been parted from his body._

"_It doesn't make sense. How can they have known this passage was here? How can they still hunt us?" Baurus has no such respect for these men who would threaten the fate of the empire, and that of his master, he spits upon the lifeless and mutilated body, scowling as he kicks the body over. Checking for signs that will identify him perhaps._

_She cannot control her trembling, though she tries. Her stomach heaves as her treacherous eyes stray to the dead man. There is a shortsword at her side, taken from the dead Captain of the Blades. It both sorrows, and repulses her. Was she, could she be capable of taking life? Something whispered to her that she had already done so. In order to cling to sanity, she could only tell it that it was wrong. _

_Without being aware that she is doing so, she moves to the emperor's side. Her footing is lost as she tries to walk through the pooled blood of the dead assassin. For her, the prospect of falling is one of abject terror. To be stained with the blood of the dead man, too much to contemplate._

_She is fortunate then, that Uriel Septim holds her up, grip firm, his strength belying his age. She cannot think of words enough to express her gratitude, and so can only hope that he understands the thanks concealed in her silences._

"_Be careful of your step, child." He warns softly, still allowing her to hold on to him for support._

_For a moment, she pauses. And then, " Belle." She says hesitantly, keeping her eyes firmly downcast._

_The emperor nods. And they continue on, without a word._

-

In the Imperial City, the day had long drawn to a close, and in the Gardens of the Arcane University a sweetly fragrant evening had descended. A sliver of moon cast a pale and ethereal light on the velvet mantle of the darkening sky, and some of the more exotic flora contained in the gardens opened their nocturnal petals to the gentle embrace of the night. Nothing could be heard but for the distant hum of life from the waterfront…

And the quietly emphatic exclamation:

"Oh, shit."

The young mage fell back against the door with a groan of frustration. It was the second time that week that he had managed to lock himself out of the mages quarters. His keys, he presumed, were in his robes. He couldn't have _lost_ them. His robes, however, were _inside, _while he was in the unfortunate predicament of being _outside, _in his leather armour. Which was also, just out of happenstance, completely devoid of a mages guild key in the pocket. Maybe he shouldn't have spent that last hour in Swordsmanship, they might not have already locked up the living quarters, and someone might still have been up and willing to let him in.

"Luther?"

He directed his line of sight upwards to see his roommate leaning out of the second story window, a candle in one hand and a vaguely bemused expression on her face. She was still dressed in her work-robes, so she must have been up studying.

"Elendriel! Thank Stendarr! I thought I was going to be out here all night."

"Again, you mean?" she said with assumed innocence. Luther glared back at her.

"… Alright, just give me a minute to get downstairs."

When she did arrive downstairs to open the door for him, he noted she had pulled a cloak and hood around herself, and even so, was still shivering. Although the night was mild, the Altmer was delicate as far as the cold was concerned. She ushered him in impatiently, closing the door behind him as she hastened to return to the dormitory. Luther followed close behind.

"So where have you been all night? Just out of curiosity." She whispered as they crept past the doors to the other branches of the living quarters.

"Extra training." Was his grim reply, "You know what my father's like."

"Ah, so that's why I haven't seen you much recently." Although the comment was intended to sound off-hand, it didn't stop her from giving him a look of reproach. He was saved making a reply by their arrival at the door to their room.

Inside, there was the warmth of an enchantment. With a sigh of relief, Elendriel removed her cloak and hood. The candlelight cast a soft glow over her auburn hair, but it also illuminated the near pallid tone of her skin. And the deep shadows etched around her eyes.

"Umm, are you alright?" he asked, laying down his practice sword and stretching out on top of his bed. "No offence, but you look terrible."

"Unlike _someone _I missed out on the whole, stay-up-training-half-the-night-and-still-have-perfect-hair gene."

"Half the night is a bit of an exaggeration. And there's nothing wrong with your _hair_-"

She interrupted him with a look of subtle misery. "Please don't say anymore."

Luther shrugged, and stopped to examine himself in Elendriel's hand mirror. And after a few moments of close scrutiny, thought to himself: _It's not 'perfect'. What is she talking about? _

Though, he did have to admit, at least all the extra work wasn't taking that much of a visible toll on him. The only real giveaway was a slight redness to his usually bright green eyes. He had developed a light tan, his body had grown firm from all the physical exertion and his hair, though assuredly not _perfect_, did still retain it's glossy, brown sheen while remaining in it's neatly cropped loose waves. Not bad really. He left the mirror on his bedside stand, folding his hands over his stomach as he closed his eyes in relaxation.

"Dammnit! Why now, when I'm so close?"

He hadn't remembered falling asleep in the first place, but the wailed complaint from Elendriel snapped him back into consciousness. His roommate was hunched over a desk that all but groaned with protest under the weight of the books and rolls of parchment unceremoniously piled on top of it. Her alchemy set had also been assembled, if in a somewhat haphazard manner, and a labelled and alphabetically categorised case of ingredients lay open on the windowsill. It was at this case that she was currently scowling at.

"Are you still awake?" Luther asked groggily, rubbing his eyes as they attempted to adjust to the light. He couldn't have been asleep long, but dozing in his leather armour had not been a terribly wise idea. He was stiff and aching all over. Elendriel turned to him, eyes wide and pleading as she began, "Luther…"

Immediately on his guard, Luther eyed her with suspicion. "What?"

The Altmer lowered her eyes to the ground, twisting her hands in her robe as she began awkwardly, "You know how I have that test in advanced alchemically created poisons tomorrow?"

"Yes." He replied cautiously.

"I ran out of Nightshade."

"… Okay."

"And Bloodgrass." There was something about the set of her face that seemed to be suggesting something.

"Well, that's not good, obviously, but I don't have any of that stuff. My specialty is healing, you know, helpful potions. Not poisons."

"… Would you go and get the ingredients for me?"

"No!"

He was not going to be dragged into this.

"I can't leave my studies now, not while I'm on the verge of a possible breakthrough! Luther, I am begging you!"

"No!"

"And it's so cold out there…"

"No!"

"I'll do all of your cleaning for a week."

"I'll be back in about ten minutes! What was it you wanted again?" he asked, already halfway to the door.

"Ten sprigs of Nightshade, five Bloodgrass shoots and a bottle of cheap wine."

"Okay. But, wine isn't poisonous is it?"

"It's just a precautionary measure. It means that if I fail, I can drink myself into a stupor afterwards." She said with a fleeting ironic smile.

"Wonderful. Good to see that you're thinking ahead." Sighed Luther, in as put-upon a manner as possible, "Guess I'll see you soon-"

"Key." She stated flatly, eyes once again fixed on her papers.

With a mildly embarrassed shuffle, he snatched the offending item out of his mages robes and exited.

-

_The sounds of combat rage from the eerily lit hall, as she and the Emperor stand back, half concealed in shadows, in the passageway. Belle winces at the clashes of steel, but his reassuring words soothe her, and keep her in what passes for a state of calm. A smile ghosts across her lips as she thinks of how close they are to the end. From what Baurus had said, they would need to take a short route through the sewers, and from there they would reach a grate leading out. Properly out. To warmth, air not tainted by decay, and most of all, the freedom she had thought never to regain._

_"Belle." His voice is hushed, but compelling._

_She turns to face him. Something seems to be wrong. He is oddly, strained. Not distressed, self-control would not have allowed him to show any signs of such. But there are lines on his brow, at the corners of his mouth, which she has not noticed before. "I have to tell you, child. My time…"_

_She returns his gaze intently. There was a fierce innocence she possessed that the old man found heartbreaking._

_His features relax by a fraction, but he cannot postpone what he has to say. "My time draws ever nearer to its inevitable end. And now that the time comes, I must ask something of you."_

_She couldn't listen. Later she would wish that she had not done as she did, that she had made it less painful for him, and not behaved like such a child. But as always, it is only in hindsight that one can come to regret._

_"No!" she cried, soft but impassioned. "You aren't going to die."_

_His expression was gentle, understanding, but as she was, she could only interpret it as condescension. She found herself angry with him. Anger! And such a futile, desperate anger it was._

_"I am not going to let you die!" she hissed, "You helped me. You believed me when no one else would." She swallowed back her childish tears, "Don't talk as though none of it matters! As if this is all predetermined!"_

_The Emperor's eyes became clouded with a helpless sort of sorrow._

_"My dear, this is all predetermined, much as I might wish it were not so. This is-"_

_"My lord, the passage into the sewers has been unlocked." Baurus had returned, " I couldn't locate any assassins in the area. I believe it is safe for you and the Imperial girl to move ahead."_

_"Destiny." The Emperor murmured, softly enough that Belle was sure she was the only one who heard. She didn't know if it had been intended even for her ears. "Very well then." His voice strengthened._

_Baurus replied with a crisp bow before excusing himself to join in combat with his fellow Blade._

_"Belle?" he had already begun to move towards the exit Baurus had indicated. "I understand that you might not wish to accept the possibility of my death. But I am being hounded by assassins. My sons are dead. It is not inconceivable that I may meet my end, even if you will not believe me when I say that I have foreseen it. My request is of the utmost importance." He smiled sadly, "Will you humour an old man?"_

_Belle fell in at his side. She had planned to listen. Just listen. It wouldn't have made any difference after all, and if it would aid her saviour, she was glad to do it._

_But then there was pain, intense pain. She felt her body crumple to the ground as she was flung aside, with all the care a child would afford a rag doll. She clenched her jaw, trying to resist crying out from the shock and the throbbing pain in her right shoulder. She focused on trying to recover from the blurriness of her vision instead. A dark shape, no, two of them, were almost directly ahead of her. Before she had recovered her wits enough to figure out what was happening, it was far too late. One had already fallen._

_"NO!" she howled, flinging herself at the as of yet nondescript shapes._

_She prayed, even if she wasn't sure to who or what, that it wasn't so. She was left grasping the arms of the still-standing figure. She was looking up at, locked almost in an embrace with one of the assassins. Conjured armour concealed the features. Whoever it was, they were entirely faceless as far as she was concerned. She wept freely as she lowered her head against the assassins shoulder._

_Fingers stiff, arm half-useless from the fall, nonetheless she curled them around her shortsword. The assassin stroked her hair absently. She can almost see his cruel smile as he toys with her, savouring her agony as he decides on the moment that she will die._

_She unsheathed her sword in a wrenching motion, and forced it upwards, eyes squeezed shut. No longer able to support himself, he fell forward. Belle placed her left hand on his chest, pressing her body against his to keep him upright. The monstrous armour disintegrated beneath her fingers, crumbling to reveal the man underneath. He was so frail, once his shell had been stripped from him. She opened her eyes so that she could look into his. Choking relief and revulsion as she thrust the blade in further, blood burbled on his lips, as it coursed freely over her hands. With a groan of a strange pain and release she let him go._

_And then she knelt at the side of her fallen saviour._

_"Emperor Septim?"_

_Her voice sounded thin to her ears, but she was surprisingly calm. She wanted to embrace him, to try and staunch the flow of blood that was pulsing, even as she watched, onto the cold stone, to hold her Emperor's hand as he died. Because they had left him no one else. But she would not. She did not want to stain him with a murderer's blood._

_He reached out his hand, placing it gently on the top of her head. She lowered her eyes, weeping with renewed fervour as she received her benediction._

_"I met you in a dream." He mumbled._

_"That's how you knew me?" She tried to smile, longing his last moments to be bearable._

_"… Take it."_

_She raised her eyes. The Amulet of Kings, clutched in his paling hands and held out for her to take._

_"Jauffre." He rasped._

_His eyes closed._

_Dazedly wiping away the last of the tears, smearing blood and grime across her face, she stood. She stumbled a little, and she was forced to lean against the wall for support, but she could still walk. She was still alive, still breathing. And he was gone._

_She surveyed the bloody scene with eyes that did not seem her own. Eyes that alighted on a mace that was slung through the assassin's belted robes. With a very cold feeling rising in her throat she staggered towards him, her eyes fixed on the weapon. She took it up in her left hand; some spark of memory told her that this would feel more natural. And so it did, the grip, the weight, the weapon, all seemed somehow to fit her better. She raised her weapon in quiet savagery. She would batter him until all traces indicating he might be human disappeared._

_"What's going on? What are you..? My Lord!" Baurus' arrival made her drop the weapon, allowing it to hang loosely at her side._

_"How could I let this happen?" his voice near broke as he knelt at the side of his fallen Emperor_

_'And how could I?' It was unspoken, but she felt it as clearly as if it had been said aloud. She had been there, could have prevented his death._

_"Baurus?" With only a slight tremor in her voice she called to him. The Amulet of Kings dangled from her limp fingers. "I think that he wanted you to take it."_

_The Blade stood, wide-eyed and a little stunned, reflex alone allowing him to reach out in time to catch the amulet as it fell._

_"Jauffre." She said with a little more conviction than she felt, before staggering onwards, determined now to reach freedom. If she could have nothing else, not safety, or someone to believe in, or her sanity, she would have the sun, the air, and the taste of rain. Her freedom._

-

The Nordic woman sighed in frustration, hazel eyes narrowing as she examined the horizon. It wouldn't be long before sunset, and dark clouds hung ominously overhead. Oh well. She was an eminently practical woman, and it wouldn't do her any good to fret over the possibility of rain when the possibility of bandits was both more likely and more bothersome. However.

She raised one of her dark eyebrows in an arch curve as she noticed the corpse, stripped and bludgeoned to death, at the side of the road. She strolled over, whistling as she slung her pack onto the ground. She did, however, leave her War-axe hooked into her belt. You could never be too careful.

With a deft foot, she rolled the dead woman over. She was scarred, had clearly been in fights before, and pretty heavily muscled. Her dagger was still clutched in callused fingers.

Solya was reasonably sure she had been a bandit, but that didn't mean you had to be rude about the thing. Rifling through her pack she came up with a fairly worn blanket. She wasn't going to miss it much. With little ceremony she placed it over the dead woman's face and prepared to move on. But before she could, she caught sight of something, or someone, else.

The girl was stretched out on the grass. She wore what looked suspiciously like ill fitting armour, potentially of the 'taken-from-the-dead', or even, 'taken-from-the-dead-that-I-battered-to-death-with-that-mean-looking-mace-at-my-side' variety. Her eyes were closed, and her grimy, blonde hair fanned out around her. The pale fingers of her left hand were twined in it, probably a habit from childhood. She seemed to be bearing the stains of a great deal of blood.

Solya crouched at her side. She wondered idly whether to wake her, or kill her before she had a chance to do so by herself. There was no chance to decide. She held her breath and caressed the axe at her side as the blonde woman opened her eyes.

"It's raining." She smiled gently.

And the rain began to fall.


	2. Cheap Wine

Disclaimer - Nope, I still don't own anything. Except Original characters and such like. Bethesda owns Oblivion, and so on. As title of Fanfic may suggest, occasional Discworld references may become apparent. ^_^

Eep. Has been quite a while between updates - partially due to the holidays, partially because some of those weeks were my scheduled 'alone time' with Oblivion and the Xbox 360.

Huge thank you's in order to those kind enough to read and review, or those who just read. :) And a Happy, belated Merry Christmas to everyone!

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"Bloody whiney elves!" Luther grumbled, as the door to the Mystic Emporium swung shut behind him. He now carried a small satchel of his friend's requisite deadly ingredients, and his purse was just that little bit lighter. All things considered, he was not a happy Breton. Elendriel was doing two weeks of his cleaning duties for this. No, make that three! And she could do his damned laundry as well!

Yes, he was, indeed, deluding himself. He decided to ignore the creeping sensation of emasculation.

Now, all that was left was the wine.

His footsteps, though light, echoed dully on the paved streets of the Market District of the Imperial City. Having finally wrested a few samples of Bloodgrass from the clutches of an Alchemist with a rather aggressive view of bartering, the prospect of a warm bed back at the university began to fill his mind with fluffy pink clouds of well-being. He brought himself to a halt outside the door to 'The Feed Bag'. Hmm. No unconscious patrons lying in pools of their own blood and filth on the doorstep… most of the windows were reasonably intact. In fact, some of those windows were even _clean. _You could see through them! Well, almost. Was it closed? No, there were definitely lights, and noise coming from inside. Cautiously, Luther pressed his ear to the door.

It didn't _sound _like a brawl. The noises generated by screaming and breaking things were notably absent, and, as far as he was aware, most people didn't laugh while having their skull caved in by an Orc with a spiked club. For some reason the fact that no violence was actually taking placewas strangely unnerving, at least as far as The Feed Bag was concerned. With more than a little reticence, Luther took a deep breath, turned the tarnished handle of the door and stepped into the tavern.

Considering he had been half-expecting something along the lines of a Daedric Prince standing atop the corpses of the slain, laughing maniacally and drinking mead from the skulls of those he had crushed (Luther had never been a terribly positive-minded individual), he was quite relieved to see that all the commotion was centred around a couple of… mostly harmless-looking knights. Large quantities of alcohol had clearly been consumed, but they seemed to be of the friendly drunkard variety. Their presence also seemed to be having a rather positive effect on the regulars. The knights were so loud and irritating, the usual patrons had retreated into the musty corners to drink themselves into unconsciousness, or simply sit and mutter darkly about 'heroes who think they own the damn place.'

"She had… Jewelsh! In her breashtsh!" Slurred a blond and broad-shouldered Imperial while cupping one hand to his chest in a decidedly breast-like motion, and waving the other in a way that definitely added enthusiasm to the story, if not actual clarity. The rest of the troupe responded by roaring in good-natured laughter. There was much slapping of backs and all-round masculine bonding.

"But… did you actually _see _them?" one of the younger, fresh-faced sort of knights asked with wide-eyed wonderment.

Luther rolled his eyes.

"… Shiny."

"I wish _I_ had jewelled breasts."

The young mage carefully manoeuvred his way over to the counter, taking extreme care not to tread on or otherwise offend the honour of any of the knights.

"Umm, excuse me. Sir?" he called politely and ineffectually.

The Dunmer barkeep seemed rather intent on the story about the bejewelled female anatomy, but at the carefully calculated jingle of coin, his head turned and an oily smile spread it's way across his features.

"Good evenin' Sir! Will you be needin' any assistance?" he enthused, "A room perhaps?"

"Um, no, thank you." Luther interjected gently, "I was really only hoping to buy a bottle of wine-"

"A Drink then!" he roared in approval, slamming a pewter mug of suspiciously foaming alcoholic beverage on the counter directly in front of the startled Breton.

"A Drink!" chorused the knights in response, raggedly raising their glasses and making vague, but heartfelt, cries of encouragement.

(They gave the word 'drink' an unusual amount of reverence. So much so that it was evidently intended that it should have a capital letter.)

"Much though I would _love _to stay," He lied earnestly, "I really do have to be getting back to the university…"

"A mage then?" his eyes lit up as he attempted to make the question sound conversational. For some reason, everyone seemed to find the term synonymous with 'large amounts of money' as opposed to what was, for most residents of the university, the dreary reality. Which was 'impoverished students quite happy to chase rats out of your basement (for a price, obviously) in order to pay their extortionate tuition fees and looming student loans'.

Guild work didn't, as a rule, pay. You were expected to do it for the glory and advancement of the guild and, possibly, the sheer joy of dragging yourself through ruins swarming with the pestilence-ridden undead and the occasional mentally unbalanced necromancer. And while this shouldn't have been a realistic expectation, for some reason, there were actually people who did it. Luther would have been quite thrilled to say that he wasn't one of them, but unfortunately, this would have been a lie.

"Yes, actually I am."

"A mage!" the knights mostly yelled, raising their drinks and welcoming him into their fold.

Luther glanced wildly around for an escape route, his instinct for self-preservation sending him back into a cornered-animal sort of state.

"But, I really don't have time to stay for a drink!"

"A Drink!"

He grabbed at the innkeepers arm, eyes wide and desperate, "Please! Just take my money! Take it all!"

"What was that sir?" the dark elf responded. Cheerfully oblivious to anything the Breton had said.

"I only wanted a bottle of Cheap Wine!" he wailed as the knights dragged him in.

Luther found himself wedged uncomfortably between the… disturbingly attractive blond knight who had been talking about breasts, and a Wood Elf who appeared to be fully unconscious already. That was, until his hand prodded his tankard forward in the hopes of a refill. The Barkeep obliged. Drunken patrons were less likely to question rooms that cost fifty gold a night and still smelled faintly of urine.

"Nice place this ain't it?" the Bosmeri knight grinned.

Luther unconsciously gave his surroundings a quick re-examination… Yes, they were still in The Feed Bag, Slimy tiling, filth and strange smells inclusive. He tried to fit the image around the term 'nice'. His head reeled from the effort.

"Uhhm?" was his eventual response.

"'Quaint' almost." Mumbled a grizzled voice from somewhere over Luther's left shoulder.

The mage took a very depressing sip of his huge tankard of ale.

Turning to his other side, the blond knight now seemed to be having a high-spirited argument with a Khajiit. Something told Luther that the cat man was not one of the assembled group. He was dressed in leather armour and had the look of one who was used to having his wits about him, most unlike any of the others.

"You enjoy giving all your money away then?" the Khajiit laughed good-naturedly. He managed to lounge on his bar stool.

"S'not _giving it away!_" the knight protested fiercely, "S'called _gambling._"

"Oh! I see, well that makes all the difference, but I ask you this: Ever actually met anyone who made themselves rich by betting on Arena matches?"

The knight thought. Well, Luther assumed he was thinking. He silently moved his lips as he did so.

"… No!" he finally retorted.

The stranger shrugged easily. "My point is proved." Which elicited a scowl and a pout from the blond knight.

"Just 'cause I don't _know _anyone doesn't mean s'not possible!"

"You keep telling yourself that." The Khajiit made every appearance of turning away, no further interest in the conversation.

The knight, seemingly, could not accept this kind of slight.

"I'll prove it to you!" he roared, standing with an emphatic sweeping motion that very nearly toppled him. His balance was not terribly reliable in his intoxicated state.

The Khajiit slowly raised one feline eyebrow, and said nothing.

"How about we make a wager?" with further swaying the knight advanced menacingly, as far as was possible without letting go of the counter – seeing as it was the only thing allowing him to still be standing. "What about _that!" _

Luther cringed internally.

"Sounds like a singularly unintelligent idea to me, but then I haven't consumed enough alcohol to sedate an ogre…"

"One hundred gold!"

"Lets just leave this little disagreement shall we?"

"Alright! Two Hundred!"

"Uhh, I actually meant that-"

"Fine! Five hundred! Five hundred gold says that I can _double _my money at the arena! By morning!" One last, particularly expansive gesture finally sent the knight lurching over. Into Luther.

The Khajiit gave a martyred little sigh. "Sure, why not? Lose half your money at the Arena… give the rest of it to me. Sounds like a fair deal." He swept his cloak over his shoulder and with a cheery wave at the mostly-horizontal knight, made to retire to his room. "Guess I'll see you tomorrow!" while, under his breath he added, "Or never again, more likely. Unless of course he's one of those duty-bound types that will feel _obligated_ to give me the gold…" the Khajiit's thoughts trailed off, leaving a warm glow of satisfaction.

-

Luther shuffled awkwardly. The Knight weighed a good deal more than Luther could have comfortably supported, which meant that both of them had ended up gravitating ground-wards at the point of impact. The knight was sprawled atop the Breton, and, most distressingly, appeared not to be moving. Feeling a pressing urge to breathe, Luther struggled vainly in an attempt to dislodge the man.

His efforts seemed to prod the knight into what was, very nearly, awareness. But it only caused the Imperial to drunkenly mumble, "Don't be that way darling…" and half-heartedly attempt to fondle Luther's non-existent breasts.

Blushing furiously and trying to escape with renewed desperation, the mage was eventually aided by the Dark elf Innkeeper, who forcibly rolled the semi-conscious knight off of the gasping Breton.

"Can't be havin' you flattenin' our little mage friend Sir Julian, he hasn't paid his tab after all!" The twinge of fanaticism to the Dunmer's tone and expression told Luther, that this was not entirely a jest.

The knight named Julian brought himself upright, still swaying gently, but expression strangely intent. "A mage?" his head swivelled to face the other man. "Then you can help me!"

Luther blinked slowly, trying to make out what the Knight was saying.

Julian grabbed the Breton's shoulders, shaking him roughly, as he wailed, "You have to help me!"

Maybe it was the lack of air that had made him so dizzy…

"I heard…" the knight's voice dropped to a conspirational whisper, "That wizards can predict the future!"

Luther concentrated very hard. "Mhnph?" he attempted.

With a dazzlingly naive smile, the knight clapped the Breton around the shoulders before hauling himself unsteadily to his feet. "You can just tell me who's going to win! To the Arena!"

-

Having no such divinatory powers as Julian had innocently ascribed to him, it was a very despondent mage who trailed behind the cheerful knight. What the hell was he supposed to do? And what kind of giant fool thought that mages could predict the outcome of Arena battles? Didn't it occur to him that _maybe _if mages could read the future, you might occasionally hear of them winning thousands on Arena matches, _for themselves_? Luther sighed to himself. Apparently not.

He pointedly didn't ask himself what kind of idiot pretends to be able to see the future in order not to upset a stranger they met in a pub.

"C'mon little friend!" The knight called with all the enthusiasm of a puppy that doesn't yet _quite_ comprehend what the 'vet' is, or why he is being taken there. He ruffled Luther's hair affectionately, much to the mages added irritation. "We're almost there!"

"I know." Luther groaned inaudibly.

The gates of the arena rose ominously before them. Great spikey-looking buggers. Luther gulped. Julian smiled beatifically.

It was rather late in the evening to be at the Arena. Luther hadn't known this. For him, the sight of spraying blood tended to evoke feelings of nausea, so the concept of people hacking bits off each other in a pit of death made him rather uncomfortable – not to mention filled with the desire to be somewhere else, rather further from aforementioned pit of death. So he wasn't exactly a regular visitor. However, there were no signs of the huge and heaving crowds he had heard tales of (apart from what he deduced were the hardened gamblers and a selection of people who just happened to enjoy seeing a good old bloodbath before bedtime), and then there was the Wood-elf announcing that the last match of the night would be taking place shortly, and would they all like to place their bets as soon as possible?

"What did the short bloke say again?" asked Julian in a voice that was just loud enough to be gratingly obnoxious. Luther gritted his teeth.

"He said that the last –"

"Oh, really? Last one? Looks like I have to bet everything I have on this one then!"

Luther looked on in terror as Julian withdrew a positively bulging purse and trotted happily into line.

"Wait!" Luther cried, grabbing the knight's arm. Julian stared blankly at him for a few moments as the young mage tried frantically to improvise something believable.

"I can't predict a winner for you!" he blurted out wretchedly.

At the sight of Julian's expression, he faltered.

"… If I haven't seen the combatants?" he added, attempting to conceal his mounting misery. Disappointing the drunken knight kind of felt like kicking a puppy. "If I see them, I can, uhh… Read their destinies from their auras…"

The Wood Elf announcer milling around nearby gave a snort of laughter at this, but luckily, the knight was proving not to be terribly observant.

"If you're looking for the gladiators, you might catch them down in the Bloodworks. But you should probably hurry if you still want to place a bet. I'm only taking them for the next few minutes." He grinned. Luther threw him a despairing look.

"Guess we'd better go see 'em then!" Julian jovially started his unstable descent towards the stone steps the Bosmer had indicated.

He needn't have bothered.

The unpleasantly stained door to the Bloodworks crashed open, wobbling madly on its hinges as a heavily built Orc in yellow raiment came storming out of it. He was closely followed by an enraged Redguard. They appeared to be having some kind of barely restrained argument.

A diminutive-by-comparison Imperial woman stepped cautiously out behind the greying Redguard. He couldn't blame her – he would have been pretty terrified about making any sudden movements around those two as well. Luther couldn't see much of her features. She wore a helm and kept her eyes resolutely cast downwards.

She was wearing the Blue Arena raiment.

Luther cheered up immediately. Perhaps 'reading the auras' wouldn't be such a difficulty after all.

"Bet on the Yellow team!" he hissed at Julian. At the slightly bemused look he got in response, he spouted some mystic nonsense that he didn't quite understand himself and the knight gleefully handed all of his money to the smiling Bosmer.

-

What Luther didn't hear was this.

"I am not fighting her!" Mosrag gro-Urlok snarled.

The Master of the Blades leaned closer, near spitting in his fury, but professional enough to know that it was more important that the idling spectators didn't hear. "You will make your way to your team's side of the stadium you craven worm or I will –"

"Kill me?" the Orc grinned, face falling as a woman silently joined them. "No worse than what she'll do!"

"The difference is, scum, that death at dear old Belle's hands would be fast and reasonably merciful. I'm not nearly so… _nice."_

"So today I die?" the Orc laughed without mirth. "And not only that, I can _choose _whose hands bring my end! The Gods do smile on me, don't they? Not everyone gets a choice!"

The old Blademaster spat. The ground itself likely quaked at his concentrated venom. "Scared to face our own little girl?" he mocked nastily, "Fact that you have twice her reach, strength and weight not enough to tip the odds enough for you to get in that ring? She's your own rank, _Bloodletter_. It's a fair fight. Well, almost. The odds are tipped slightly in your favour… What do you say Belle? Don't see her complaining, do you?"

"Her? Bloodletter? We all know that's a joke! Hey, wait! Her last match was three-on-one, do I get any help?" the Orc mused outwardly with undisguised scorn.

"Help you into your damn grave if you keep annoying me!"

The old Redguard managed to physically intimidate the Orc back into the bloodworks, grumbling all the way. None of the civilians were any the wiser.

A Nordic woman stepped up behind the Young Imperial, laying a reassuring hand on her shoulder. The smaller girl had that faraway look, and, not unexpectedly, paid no heed to the Nord's presence.

"Don't worry about it. Some men are still all the bloody same! Can't stand a woman that's just better'n they are." She had a feeling that the girl's problems were likely to be her own, but it was better to say… well, something, she figured. "You're doing real well kid. Took me _years _to get used to it." Solya smiled.

The Imperial didn't say anything, but gave a wan smile in return, meekly following the other woman out.

-

Luther watched in abject horror as the Orcish Warrior fell face forward into the sands of the Arena. The Imperial woman stood, a little shakily, but definitely still alive. More than could be said for the Orc.

He lowered his head slowly into his hands.

Sir Slow-on-the-Uptake beside him was cheering enthusiastically, safe in his complete lack of comprehension of actual events, and his misplaced faith in the suffering mage.

"That was brilliant!" the knight called as he leapt from his seat, dragging Luther from his into a spine crushing 'man-hug'. "Lucky I had you to tell me who would win, eh? I never would've thought! That Orc was huge! And who knew you could do that with a mace!?"

Julian's alcohol-induced cheer was usually infectious, but served only to send the Breton to wallowing in yet another well of self-pity.

"Julian… Your money was on the Orc."

"Amazing! And I can't wait to see the look on the Kitty-Cat's face when I tell him I won!"

"You _lost _Julian! _We _lost!" Luther, short on both temper and sanity raised his voice.

The knight's expression didn't change, although his rambling did stop. It could only be an improvement, right? He changed his mind after a few moments of agonising silence.

"Look, I'm sorry! I really am! Obviously _I_ can't predict the future, and _you _shouldn't trust people you just met in taverns!" Luther waited for the blow.

"Now… Don't be so hard on yourself, friend." The knight's voice was strangely grim.

"… What?" Luther risked a glimpse between fingers clasped over his eyes.

"They must have cheated!"

"Uh?"

"I knew something was wrong about this!" Julian roared, leaning out over the railings that separated the audience from the pit and beginning to hurl obscenities at the recent victor, the arena managers and anyone he happened to think worth mentioning. Luther could only watch on as Julian did the Arena equivalent of urinating on a shrine of Mehrunes Dagon, next to an Oblivion Gate, shouting 'All Daedra are Bastards'.

-

Belle looked down at the broken body of the Orc with a twinge of remorse. Usually she could ignore the feeling, but something wasn't quite right today. And she'd rather liked him. Not that he had returned the sentiment or anything… Most people didn't, and she couldn't blame them really.

_Murderer. _A voice in her head that she could almost recognise as her own hissed at her.

A grave smile that she did not trust spread it's way across her features.

"Yes." She whispered, "But here they like murderers… Listen. Some of them are chanting my name." A terrible, terrible sadness threatened. But if she let it in, she'd let the rest of it, the other things, in too.

She said a silent prayer for her fallen opponent as the smattering of crowd cheered on. Perhaps the Gods would have mercy on her. "Mara preserve." She muttered gently as she turned to leave the stadium. Behind her, a thunder-faced Solya was stomping her way across the Arena, gesturing angrily towards the stands and surging forth a torrent of linguistic filth, (The Nord could make 'soup' sound like a curse) dodging neatly as a bottle of ale was flung at her. The glass shattered at Belle's feet, and the liquid contained seeped into the ground. It seemed significant, portentous even. Not that it gave much of a clue what for.

She looked up at the approximate area that the Nord woman was cursing at. The cause of the disturbance appeared to be a red-faced blond man who was doing his very best to start a fight. She couldn't catch much of it, but he seemed under the impression that she had… cheated?

After a final, particularly emphatic string of profanities, the man yelled back something like 'Fine! I accept then!' before collapsing heavily.

"Under the strain of his own thick skull." Solya muttered. "Looks like you've got another opponent tomorrow." She grinned at Belle, before stalking back the way she had come. Belle followed, with an odd tightness in her chest that she couldn't quite shake for the rest of the night.


	3. Fate Gets a Sense of Humour

Disclaimer - I don't own anything about Oblivion. I do own my character's though. So there.

Speedy update as a method of overcompensating for my previous (and probably future) laziness! I love you if you read. I will love you more if you review. ^_^

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Morning crawled sluggishly across the skies above the Imperial City, as if to give the subtle, petulant message to the people beneath it that really it would have preferred to sleep in. A sucking humidity lingered in the air, all traces of the previous night's fragrant evening vanished like so much new steam. In revenge for it's untimely awakening, the heat of the day was relentless; even the flies were sweating.  
'Hah!' thought the morning.

Julian Artellian blinked very, very slowly as a particularly invasive, stabbing ray of sunlight bullied him into waking. If his next movements were too vigorous, his poor, struggling brain told him, it was fairly likely that his eyeballs were going to fall out of his face. He did the only thing that seemed circumstance-appropriate. That is, clutched at his insistently pulsating head and let out something between the cry of a wounded bear and a vague approximation of:

'OhbuggerwhatdidIdolastnightsomeonepleasekillmenow!'

Well! Now that he had gotten that out of his system.

He heard a low chuckle from somewhere uncomfortably nearby.  
Deciding to take things in steps, he decided to focus on the things that he could immediately tell for certain.

- He was not in a gutter/on the floor of a tavern/on an unspecified ship heading to an unspecified location or, a little unfortunately, dead.

- Surroundings were reasonably comfortable and suggested a bed-like arrangement.

- No one was holding a knife to his throat.

The news so far was good, and he was reasonably confident that he could risk opening his eyes.A sigh of relief graced his lips as the first thing to be seen was a perfectly non-descript ceiling. Well, it sagged a bit, and he wasn't sure what all of those brownish-reddish stains were, but Julian liked to stay positive. So, with a creaking of springs and rustling of sheets confirming that he was indeed in a bed, the hung over knight raised himself up on his elbows. Now for the real challenge. With some reluctance he repositioned himself in order to survey the rest of the area.

There was a woman in the room with him.

Now, this wasn't entirely out of the ordinary. He did occasionally stay in places where they had such a thing as maidservants, but the thing about maidservants was that they were usually wearing some form or variation of clothing.

He felt the first stirrings of a mild breed of panic. As well as fleeting admiration of the woman's… eyes. Julian clutched the bed sheet to his chest while emitting something that was definitely _not _a looked up at the sound and continued, completely unabashed, to fix her hair. "Solya." The woman stated with a wry smile.  
At the entirely blank stare she received in return she elaborated in the slow, measured voice reserved for foreigners and idiots, "That's - my - name."

A small gurgling noise was Julian's immediate response. Solya took this as an indication that she might as well keep on talking. "Figured you might not know. I mean, I have _no _idea what yours is."

Only now that she had finished piling her glossy, black hair atop her head in some kind of twist, and had given it a thorough examination in the reflection of Julian's discarded breastplate, did she see fit to locate her clothes.

Having regained the ability to speak, Julian coughed hesitantly before blurting out, "What happened last night?" looking out from the shelter behind his bed sheet.

She shrugged, "Nothing terribly exciting."

He could have refrained from questioning her further, Julian was rather good at selective denial he thought (that is, just ignoring anything with the potential to upset him), but vanity is a force to be reckoned with.

"What do you mean by 'nothing terribly exciting'?"

Solya looked thoughtful. "Well, it wasn't _bad, _but I've had better."

"… Had better?"

"Mm. It was a little bland I thought."

"_Bland!?_" he squeaked indignantly.

"Thought it could have done with a bit of fennel myself. I suppose the Argonian only claimed she could cook, not that she could cook well_._" She gave the same throaty chuckle he had heard upon awakening. Turning to face him, she gave a little frown of puzzlement upon seeing his face.

"Oh! You were talking about the _sex!_" she exclaimed as if the thought had only just crossed her mind which, he had to remind himself, it had. It took her a few moments to ponder.

"… About average I would have said."

Julian quickly decided that getting dressed and as far away as possible seemed a good option.

"I could give you a few pointers if you like?" she offered innocently.

Maybe he didn't need to be _fully _dressed to get out of here. He didn't want his shirt that badly, did he?

"Although, you might want to save your energy. Belle might look like a skinny little milksop, but she's pretty handy with a blunt weapon." She said this with the glowing affection of a proud parent. "Can move well in that armour too."

This caught his attention for a moment, if only because it completely baffled him.

"Huh?" he enquired with all of his accustomed eloquence.

For the first time during their nice little chat, her grin seemed just a _little_ bit impressed. "Wow. How much _did _you drink?"

He sat patiently through her following explanation (once he had finished with the process of clothing himself). However, it was with a good helping of enthusiasm that Julian eventually slammed the door leading to the scary woman behind him. As far as he could surmise, he had come to the Arena with someone whose description he only vaguely recognised, lost all of his money in a bet, agreed to a fight to the death in… Oh, just under a half hour, and… That's right, he was inept. The latter worried him just that little bit more than all the rest of it, which probably says something about Julian Artellian.

And, loath though he would have been to admit it, probably the most difficult example of combat he had been, you know, _directly_ involved in had been with a Mudcrab. He wondered abstractly if this qualified him to take on a woman who regularly beat men twice her size into squishy lumps for a living...

…

It had been a _big _Mudcrab.

His eventual conclusion was that everything would probably work out.

-

Elendriel awoke with a start at a tapping on her shoulder. She barely registered the presence of the intruder before he smiled apologetically, (as much as was possible with no teeth) handing her a small parcel, (which she was later, deeply relieved to find contained Nightshade and some shoots of Bloodgrass) and indicating something about her left cheek. With a groggy motion she scrabbled at the side of her face, dislodging a sheaf of parchment, and leaving the better part of the first page of her thesis printed across it. She mumbled a self-conscious thank you and handed him a small collection of coins.

It appeared that she had fallen asleep in the midst of her studies. The situation didn't seem too dire, a little regiment of eerie green bottles was assembled before her, each clearly labelled, and she had laid a large wad of notes to the side, the rest untidily assembled in front of her on the desk. Some of these were a little smudged, but if the examiner _really _wanted to, he could read it directly off Elendriel.  
Less reassuring was the impression she got that Luther's bed appeared not to have been slept in.

-

Luther was, in fact, still at the Arena, in what dawning suspicion told him was probably a guest room. He gave a little involuntary shudder at what the rest of it was probably like.

It had come to pass that, after Julian had enraged half the populace of the Arena district, it had been left to the nervous Breton to try and smooth everything over. Needless to say it had not gone well. They had wanted a good deal of extra information on the, by then peacefully snoring Imperial, so he had been roped into creating a number of fairly colourful answers of dubious accuracy (basically lies) in the hope that they would allow him to leave. No such luck. He had assuaged his guilt, marginally, by paying one of the 'Pit Dogs' a gold coin to deliver the ingredients Elendriel had asked him for. But escaping seemed to be a rather more difficult obstacle to overcome.

It was sometime after his more proactive thoughts had just about given up and gone home, that Julian the slightly dishevelled knight walked, unannounced, into his room. Despite lingering remorse about the little episode where he had convinced the knight to give all of his money to a smarmy little Bosmer, the mage narrowed his eyes.

"Good morning!" the knight beamed in the voice of one who is generally a morning person.

"Good morning." Luther replied in the clipped tones of one who is not.

"So, we… know each other, right friend?" Julian drew up a seat next to the Breton.

"I suppose so."

"Think you could maybe help me out with a little –"

"No." the reply was quick and just a touch on the venomous side.

"But, why not?" Bewildered, the knight sifted frantically through the snatches of what he actually could remember, looking for something he might have done to offend the mage.

The mage refused to answer and the set of his shoulders suggested he would stubbornly refuse to do so for some while longer.

Not sure he wanted to know, Julian asked dispiritedly, "Why aren't you talking to me Luther?" The knight began to settle in for what promised to be a long next few minutes. "Just give me a summary of my screw-ups, will you? Wait! I mean, if that's alright with you?"

Luther found that it was a good deal easier to be angry with Julian while he was sober, and now that he himself hadn't had any sleep. He gave him a slow, measuring look before launching into a brief, but rather provocative re-enacting of the noises produced from next room that had resulted in the mages lack of sleep in the first place, ending with a slightly bitter, 'Oh, _Julius!!!_' (Yes. _Multiple _exclamation marks.)

A few moments later he had the grace to look embarrassed.

No such effect was elicited from Julian. Instead he looked just a little smug as he did a mental celebratory dance and banished all doubts about his ineptitude, which had obviously been a lie invented to cover up the fact that Solya must be madly and deeply in love with him. He gave a little sigh, after all, he couldn't help that he was fiendishly irresistible. He even, most magnanimously he thought, felt a little sorry for the poor girl. Julian tried very hard to not smile before turning to the mage and saying, "Luther, I am really sorry. But please help me to not die in the next hour or so." He didn't believe he was going to _die _as such, but it sounded better. And with a little help from the mage, he might manage to avoid injury altogether!

"What sort of help did you have in mind?" Luther responded cautiously. A few terrifying scenarios flitted across his mind, but he was sure that, whatever horrors his imagination could concoct, Julian was probably thinking of something worse.

"Just, you know, maybe a little bit of a boost. Bit of protection or something?" the knight asked hopefully.

Though he tried not to let it show, a note of suspicion crept into the mage's voice, "Is that all?"

"Well yes. What were you expecting?"

Luther shrugged. He didn't want to give him any ideas.

"I mean, if you think of something better, I'm totally open to suggestions -"

"I won't. _Trust me._"

An awkward silence ensued, broken not long after by the knight piping up with, "Breakfast?"

-

'Breakfast' turned out to be big lumps of meat with extra, miscellaneous bits of animal. Luther wrinkled his nose and went looking for the vegetarian option while Julian made friends with the other large hairy men.

The door to the storeroom was easy enough to locate, but going much further than that was something of a trial. Though the corridor itself was dimly illuminated by the torchlight, corners and cracks in the stairs and bags of potatoes that had been permitted to fall over and spill their contents occasionally escaped the dingy pools of light and, as a result, Luther tripped over himself fairly regularly on the descent. He did, however, manage to reach the bottom of the stairs without too much incident and no injury.

Sacks of grain had been stacked in rows alongside stretches of dusty shelving that were unceremoniously laden with a variety of bagged foodstuffs. As he walked the aisles (it was almost like being in a library, he thought with a brief flash of fondness for the university), he was mildly surprised to find that someone else had taken a similar notion. She wasn't difficult to recognise, even without her Arena raiment and helm and the corpse of the slain at her feet…

Without saying a word she held out a slightly wrinkled apple. Seeing it as a nice alternative to meat lumps, he took it with the sort of nervous smile one would give a rampaging bull elephant.

She watched him, with an unsettling single-mindedness as he considered what the option least likely to offend and provoke her into murdering him with a nearby cabbage was. Eventually he adopted a wide, placating smile and said, "Hi." And, "Thanks for the apple."

"Hello." She said quietly.

The silence stretched itself out with a languid lack of purpose, as she continued to watch the mage with pointed interest.

"Umm. Did you want something?" he ventured politely.

"I want to observe the friend of the man who does not fear me."

"Right! Well, that's nice and interesting. But I wouldn't say we were friends _as such_. More like acquaintances to be honest, not even particularly acquainted acquaintances. Don't know much about him at all really, so I can't say observing me would be terribly enlightening! Probably best to go and talk to the man himself. He's upstairs you know! You should go find him!" Luther gabbled.

"… I have frightened you." She said with a touch of awkwardness, "I'm sorry."

Luther stopped. People with intent to disembowel you in the near future didn't usually make apologies. Or bite their fingernails and stare nervously at the ground for that matter. He found himself rather confused by what now looked very much like a very ordinary girl. She couldn't have been any older than he was, surely? And he wasn't yet twenty.

"Do you really have to, you know, kill him?" Luther began sheepishly, quickly adding, "Not that I care _overly _much." He gave away the lie to his words by the little crease that appeared between his brows, she thought.

The already uncomfortable atmosphere intensified as he noticed that she appeared thoroughly miserable, taking on the ghost of a pained expression. It passed more quickly than it had been there though, and she resumed the creepy detached manner that he had seen before. He began to wonder if it had been the shadowy lighting toying with her features.

Whatever it was, she didn't give him a chance to figure out. She gave a muttered excuse and was fleeing up the staircase before Luther could so much as think about stopping her. He gave what can only be described as an internal shrug, put down the wrinkled apple with a look of slight distaste and began his search for a better one.

-

Belle didn't look behind her to see if the mage had attempted to follow her, or reason with her, or any such things. She doubted he would have been able to. It had only been a month or so since that other time, before Solya had found her, but she knew the Underworks of the Arena inside out. Every step, every twist and turn and corner. In the half-light it would be a struggle for him, but for Belle it was not an obstacle.

Unusual perhaps, to have grown so knowledgeable in so short a space of time, but Belle had given herself to the place. At least she had thought so, she wasn't so sure anymore. It had, after all, been another chance, and who was she to refuse such a gift? A place where your name, or face, or past didn't matter, (What bliss! No need to remember, because no one wanted to know) and all anyone really judged you on was how you handled yourself in the pit… At the beginning, that part hadn't been easy. It still wasn't, and she had a feeling it probably never would be. It didn't matter.

It was frustrating to have doubts now, just when it had all seemed so simple. You did what the Blademaster told you. The regime was as hard on the mind as well as the body, because out-thinking your opponent was the only real option when you were half his size and not too handy on the spells. You filled your free time with training or you weren't expected to live much longer than the average goldfish. Belle hadn't minded. She'd had nothing to lose, nowhere else to go and more motivation than most to spend those long nights in the training rooms. The Arena was your life, that's just the way it was, and there was no room for fear or hesitation or despair.

Why then, the uncertainty?

She slowed her pace as she drew near the sounds of food and companionship. The mage boy was not following her, and he had said…

There he was.

She knew everyone else at the table, at least to an extent. But she had never shared with them like this stranger. He was regaling them with some tale or other, in which his own heroics seemed to feature rather prominently. And to her surprise, they listened.

Anyone else not a scarred Arena veteran, someone yet to prove himself (to spill his own blood on the soil of the pit, that is) would have been jeered off the table. But there was something about this man. They just didn't seem able to help it. Some of them were looking sceptical, some of them openly laughing, there was a scatter of bickering. But, without fail, they all listened. She found herself intensely curious as to what this mysterious quality of his was, and she crept a little closer. He _was_ handsome; she was not so blind as to miss that. But he was not inordinately clever, or witty. He did not flatter, or use the arts of speech craft or enchantment.

Belle wanted desperately to speak to him. Who was this strange man who had not chosen the life, but had courage enough to challenge them all? And then sit amongst them and have breakfast? He smiled as if no cares or worries burdened him, as if all of time was stretched out ahead of him, waiting for his steps…

As opposed to not very much time at all, which was a good deal closer to the truth.

Unless of course, fate decreed that today she was going to be the one to die at his hand. If you had given yourself to the Arena, these were not thoughts that were generally encouraged, but were ones that nevertheless, crossed everyone's minds at one time or another. For most, 'one time or another' meant every single time those gates shrieked open and your opponent began his advance.

"What are you doing down there?"

She flinched just a little, quickly attempting to disguise the fact. The Blademaster stood over her. Gruff though he was, he reached down to give her a hand up. It just made him uncomfortable to see her cringing in a corner. He was used to her being all but mechanical.

She didn't answer his question, which generally earned the Blademaster's wrath, but Belle didn't talk much anyway. Most were of the opinion that she was a bit simple, and Owyn thought that was as good an explanation as any.

"Go. Prepare yourself."

She nodded solemnly and began to walk away. Behind her she could hear the roar of the Blademaster and a few crashes of eating utensils as he pulled his usual 'welcome the new guy by dragging him to his first match by the ear' routine. A few cries of protest were quickly stifled, and a ripple of laughter went up from the table. The stranger seemed to have accepted his fate by the time she made her turn-off towards the training area, where her raiment and her weaponry was stored.

The stranger and Owyn came to a stop just outside the room and waited as the door swung shut. She took the opportunity to duck behind a few crates in order to dress, first the simple blue tunic, belted at the waist, then the assortment of plate overlays. She held her breath as the door creaked open, for a reason she couldn't understand, and stood to meet the stranger face-to-face for the first time.

Earnest brown eyes peered at her from behind a tangle of blond. He gave her an open and totally guileless smile, instead of the wary, weighing glance one usually receives from an opponent.

"Hello!" he grinned before receiving a swift kick from the Blademaster that brought him back to a mock serious expression and the task at hand.

"Keep smiling like that worm and she'll shove it through the back of your head. Heavy or Light?" the grizzled Redguard growled holding up an example of each example of raiment.

"_Heavy."_ The man intoned with requisite machismo.

Owyn snarled and tossed him the armour. "Pick your weapon and whatever and _be ready. _Your door is to the left; just wait in the wings for the announcements to begin. If I have to come down here to speed you up, so help me, I will kill you myself and deny Belle the pleasure." He smiled nastily, "Got all that?"

"Yes, Sir!"

The Blademaster stalked away, slamming the door pointedly behind him. Most men, on their first time at least, were wrecks by this point. Either this man was very brave or very stupid. She hadn't decided which yet.

They didn't immediately speak. The stranger had begun to dress and Belle had found herself turning hastily to the weapons rack, trying hard not to let the heat rise to her face, or her embarrassment show. She made a point of looking through what was there, even though she already knew the weapon that she would select. The one she had been found with, if she remembered correctly. It was wicked-looking thing, of elvish make she had been told. Nicely weighted, light in the hand, more than satisfactory for it's purpose. She picked it up and, with a measure of trepidation, turned around, relieved to see that the man was clothed, if moving a little uncomfortably.

He hefted a longsword and gave a few experimental swings as she watched on in bewilderment. His technique was… unusual. Well, that was being quite delicate about the thing. The reality was that he looked like someone who had learned swordplay from a diagram. He _was _holding the right end though; she would give him that one. The man raked back some of his hair with a careless motion as he slotted the sword into its sheath at his side.

He mistook her disbelief for admiration, and bowed extravagantly, "_Sir _Julian Artellian." As he rose, he caught her eye and practically twinkled as he spoke. "Don't worry. I _am _an experienced warrior, but I am not a brute! I won't harm you _any_ further than necessary." She could only cough back a choke of surprise at that one, but he didn't seem discouraged. He carried on, in fact. "'Belle', was it? This whole _fight to the death _business, it's a bit extreme anyway, don't you think?"

Without noticing she was doing so, she shifted her head to one side as she regarded him, rather like an inquisitive bird.

"… I don't want anyone to die." She said cautiously and with the kind of diplomacy that Julian found totally incomprehensible.

"I'm glad of that." His voice was just a touch softer than when he had spoken before, even though he laughed at the end, as if to indicate a jest.

Belle's eyebrows furrowed as she tried to understand his motives at least, if not him.

Gathering her courage she walked towards the stranger (_Julian,_ she reminded herself), purpose in her stride. He looked vaguely around, as if expecting her to be looking at someone behind his left shoulder. Her gaze didn't waver. Once he had come to the conclusion he was the only one present, a slow look of anticipation spread across his features.

She paused, a hand's breadth from his chest, allowing herself to enjoy a slight, tingling pleasure from the closeness, and the faint heat she could feel radiating from his body. His breath stirred a few loose strands of her hair, and if she closed her eyes, she could just about hear his heart beat…

Curiosity satisfied, she took a step back and proffered one of her hands. The nonplussed knight, with one of his own hands resting on her waist, the other on the small of her back and in the delicate process of easing downwards, seemed not quite able to return her friendly gesture immediately. He removed his offending hands as if they had suddenly been exposed to shock or burning temperatures, and quickly inserted one of them into the shake, giving her a wide placating smile as he did so.

"Until next we meet." She murmured, acutely aware that the circumstances of their next prescribed meeting were far from auspicious. She tried not to think about it as she opened the door to her wing just off the stadium.

Even as she shut it behind her, an extreme shift in the atmosphere began. It wasn't the dark or the rank smell, or even the taste of stale blood that lingered perpetually in the air. It was the ripple of the crowds. The terrifying energy roiled and spilled over from their places in the stands. Demanding blood, the price that every combatant paid.

She knew well enough by now not to look at the walls, to ignore the feel beneath her feet. But then, she also knew that questions had no place in the stadium, that a challenger was just that, and not to be considered beyond how to dispatch them. She knew that there was no such thing as choice.

-

Luther stumbled his way through the stands, cursing Julian, cursing the weird girl, and barbaric entertainments, and wrinkled apples, and most things really. He eventually found an unoccupied square inch of ground, and shuffled into it. The crowd roared despite no seeming activity. Not wanting to be left out, he roared, "Pretty good, eh?" at a nearby fellow spectator.

The man turned, gave him a look of instant mistrust, and resumed the act of ignoring him.

Luther wisely decided that shutting up might be the best tactic for the rest of the match.

-

Meanwhile, Julian sidled up to his place at the gate, trying to think what to do. He didn't want to do _this_, that much he could figure out by himself. When he had heard of the Orc-slaying woman of steel, cutting through her enemies fearless and without remorse or emotion. Well… maybe he had been stereotyping, but he hadn't pictured a girl who didn't quite reach his shoulder, and was quite pretty, really, and sort of nice once you got over the staring and the way that her face didn't move too often. Killing some monstrous warrior who was all fire and snarling had a certain romance about it, the term 'slaying' could probably even be applied, but this wasn't knightly behaviour, he was quite sure.

-

She couldn't hear the boom of the announcers voice anymore. Even the great wave of sound generated by the crowd seemed to be muffled, competing to be heard over the rush of blood in her veins. Her knuckles were white around the handle of her weapon, and to her horror, she found she was shaking.

The gates slid up and there was no more time, she would have to face the inevitable. There was nothing she could do, and somewhere, she knew this. But it didn't stop that treacherous little thought that for some reason, everything hinged on what happened now. How this could be so when there was only one outcome, Belle could not think. Two outcomes, she corrected herself, but only one that she needed to worry about.

What am I supposed to _do_? She asked herself frantically.

He advanced without caution, running, bellowing across the battlefield with sword raised high. Instinctively, she took a defensive stance, readying her shield as she waited for the blow to come.

It was so incompetently misjudged that it whirred uselessly over her head.

With a manoeuvre far more complex than simply deflecting an attack, she tried to dodge what wasn't there in an attempt to make it look as though she had ducked under the blade, and get herself far enough away so that she wasn't expected to launch a counter-attack. She wasn't sure if he could use his shield or not, but she thought it was probably better not to test it.

His next assault was a slight improvement on the first. It would have hit if she'd had a reaction speed slightly slower than the average corpse. She caught it with her weapon, not something she usually would have done, and applied some of her bodyweight to her shield arm, using it to push him back, as gently as she dared.

Her opponent let out a small grunt of frustration. Much as she was trying, the crowd seemed to be picking up on just how mismatched the battle was, clearly audible; a ripple of dissent was beginning to spread.

She feinted an attack of her own, taking care that her mace came directly into contact with his blade, and not the side of his head. It connected with the thick clanging of steel against steel. In this particular situation, he proved capable. He gave his sword an almighty wrench, sending her staggering back… And leaving himself entirely exposed to retaliation on her part. She feigned a stumble, expelling breath as she hit the ground and choking on the swirling eddies of dust her fall disturbed. To her surprise, he saw wisdom in taking advantage of the situation. When next she looked up at him, his blade was pressed to her throat.

Belle nearly laughed out loud at fate's twisted sense of humour, she had been trying so hard not to kill him that she had actually succeeded. She wondered if anyone else would appreciate her victory.

But, to her surprise, death did not seem forthcoming.

"Surrender!" the frantic knight hissed.

This time she did laugh. There was no surrender in this place. Words counted for nothing, and satisfied no one. You paid the price in blood, your opponents, or your own.

He gave her a very worried look before taking matters into his own hands. Literally. He threw himself to his knees beside her, wresting her weapon from her surprised grip.

"She surrenders!" he cried, holding her weapon like a trophy above his head.

The crowd was livid.

The fool had no idea what he was doing, that was clear enough. But she had to allow for the fact that he was trying. She hadn't come up with anything better herself, after all. Still, he needed her help if they were going to get out alive.

"Hit me!" she begged, staggering to her feet. "Grab me by the hair, drag me from the pit, I don't care. Just do something!"

Julian gave her a look that clearly stated he hadn't quite comprehended what she had just said. With a sigh of frustration, she threw herself into him, hoping that bridging the distance would make it easier for him to hear her instruction.

"Mercy doesn't sit well here, knight! If we are to leave this pit alive, it is with the defeated as the slave of the victor, humiliated and without honour!"

Julian was so surprised to hear her speak so many words at once, let alone such impassioned ones, that it took him a few moments to react.

Once he had gotten the gist, he did make an effort. It was with mild surprise that she found herself being slung over his shoulder, rather like a sack of potatoes, and lugged off in the general direction that he had come from. She put on a show of kicking and screaming a bit, and luckily for her, the announcer picked up and saved them any further antics.

However, despite her resolution to stay calm, she couldn't prevent a furious blush once he started going on about the imminent deflowering and ravishing that 'the victor' would surely submit 'his prize' to.

-

Luther loitered outside with anxiety heightened to a near super-human level. Where the hell was the damned knight? It was getting _dark _already.

Julian answered his unasked question unintentionally when he came bounding through the gate. The mage felt relief for about a fraction of a second until he saw, with sinking certainty, who followed behind.

"So, how was the 'ravishing'?" He asked with more than a hint of sarcasm. It wasn't that he had anything against her, he reassured himself. She was a bit scary, yes. But so were a lot of people. He was only irritated because everything was irritating. It wasn't _personal._

The girl seemed quite absorbed in something, and either missed the comment or was pointedly ignoring it. Julian responded with his usual intellectual flair.

"That was just an _act _Luther. I didn't really –"

"Belle? I thought you lived at the Arena. Do you have a home in the City?"

She looked around in a distracted sort of way.

"No… That is, I don't live there anymore. I don't have a home." She didn't seem to be volunteering anything else, but Julian stepped in.

"She's going to be staying at the Feed Bag with the troupe for a couple of days, until she finds a place, which is why she's coming with me. As are you! I am not letting you leave before I buy you a drink with my victory money!"

"But I didn't do anything!"

"Yes you did! You predicted Belle would lose, right? Which she did, she lost to me." On anyone else, this would have been an unbearably pompous statement. On Julian, you just kind of had to accept it.

"Julian, I can't predict –"

"I won't hear of it! To the Feed Bag!"

"_Wonderful_."

Julian, who was immune to sarcasm, ruffled his hair yelling, "That's the spirit!"

-

"What do you mean they're gone!?"

The proprietor of the Feed Bag looked helplessly at the knight, and gave a shrug of indifference. "Just that, sir. They left this morning."

"They're my _troupe_. My band of knights errant! We're like a family! They wouldn't _leave me!" _Julian wailed in a tone that it was just slightly embarrassing for someone over the age of twelve to be using.

"Umm. Well, I'm sorry sir, but they did. Those other knights, they –"

"What other knights?" at the mention of competition, Julian's tone took on a dangerous edge.

"Knights of the Thorn? Mentioned a drinking party at their lodge. _Very _big on the drinking parties from what I hear. Invited your lot to join."

By now Julian was not so much speaking as snarling. "_Where can I find them?"_

"I think they said Cheydinhal…"

Julian dismissed the man without so much as a nod, turning to the two slightly stunned members of his group. "Come with me!" he proclaimed authoritatively.

"… Um, no?" Luther responded.

Belle remained silent.

"Pleeeease?" the knight wheedled, "There might be dangerous things, and if I go by myself I could be killed by bandits, or wild animals or monsters!"

"_Surely not the great Sir Julian Artellian?"_

"I know that it's hard to believe, but I can't do it all by myself! I need this more than anything. Please! My friends, I have never needed you more than I do now."

Luther mused that this was possibly true, but only because he hadn't, realistically, met them all that long ago. Belle, for example, he had met this morning.

"It will be an adventure!" at the lack of response, Julian added,

"And I'll pay you!"

Luther thought that he might _just _be able to deal with that arrangement.


	4. Onwards, Brave Companions

Disclaimer - I don't own stuff! =D

Oh dear, this update took me some time. ^_^

I would like to thank incandescent-smile, whose review reminded me that I should probably post a chapter once in a while. Thank you!

This chapter wasn't really supposed to stretch itself out like this, (this is only really the first half of what I intended to write) but will get around to doing some vaguely important stuff in the exciting next instalment! Huzzah! :P

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Julian had already retired to his room, (probably to obsess over the loss of his beloved knights and cry, Luther thought savagely) which had, for the moment, left the mage alone with Belle. It shouldn't have bothered him as much as it did, because, as per usual, she wasn't saying much. Luther took another sip of wine and tried valiantly to focus on the unwritten letter before him. A small, but steadily expanding, pile of the crumpled remains of his rejected attempts lay to the side of his table.

A pang of irritation at seeing this prompted him to reduce it to a smouldering pile of ashes with a wave of his hand and a well-placed threading of destructive magic. He gave a slightly smug smile of triumph at this little victory.

This was quickly replaced with stuttering apologies as the hard-eyed Orcish maid stalked over to sweep it up, all the while glaring at him with the kind of loathing most commonly inspired by a thousand years of oppression.

With acute embarrassment and increased irritation - this time directed at himself - Luther returned to the letter. He managed to write 'Dear Father' before progress drew to a grinding halt. He had just gotten a hint of that weird prickling you get at the nape of your neck when you know that you're being watched.

He immediately directed a suspicious glance at Belle.

She wasn't staring, but he had this feeling that she was fully aware of every movement he made. She looked innocent enough, apparently flipping through a copy of the '_Children's Anuad'_.

After a fair amount of painstaking attempts at conversation with her, he had found out little beyond that she remembered almost nothing of her existence before her spell at the Arena (which hadn't incidentally been that long, so she knew very little about her own life, it seemed), and he had also noted some gaps in her general knowledge. Some of this ignorance could well have been little to do with her loss of memory, particularly if she was from some remote region or just generally uneducated, but then again…

She had, for example, become quite upset when he had asked if she knew the name of the current emperor ('former' he reminded himself grimly). There was no simple excuse for not knowing _that_.

He also wasn't convinced that he believed her, but, of course, there was no one to raise his suspicions with. The idea of sharing them with poor guileless Julian was enough to make his overtaxed mind snort with laughter.

Nevertheless, in the spirit of good will and attempting to ensure that travelling with her would be bearable, he had furnished her with a copy of the _Anuad _and the commandments of the Nine Divines.

The Nine had proven to be a safe subject, as well as one she was mildly interested in and had vague recollections of. He thought her family was probably fairly devout, possibly bordering on fanatical, for this to have stuck with her, when petty details like the names of her parents, or their own emperor escaped her notice.

He thought she might be enjoying them.

Maybe.

Belle examined each and every page with an almost frightening amount of concentration, occasionally allowing her cold veneer to soften enough to crease into a tiny smile. She leaned in so close, that her hair spilled over the tabletop, her nose, surely, near touching the page. She looked up, addressing Luther as though they had been engaged in polite conversation the whole night as opposed to studiously ignoring one another.

"I remember this."

The mage nodded in what he hoped was an encouraging fashion.

"Akatosh." She sounded the name, savouring its familiarity. To Luther's surprise she seemed not to want to continue reading. More surprising was the odd expression that had flitted across her face for a moment as she had admitted that she remembered… He watched as she meticulously stacked the two books, smallest one on top, and brought them over to his table.

"I don't really need them. You can have them if you want?" he suggested.

The Imperial's lips curved into something like an expression of happiness and, for a swift moment laced her arms around him. Her touch was light, but could roughly be interpreted as a hug. He gave a warm, deeply uncomfortable smile in response as he tried not to find it weird.

"Um. You're welcome."

She dipped her head in acknowledgement, and picked up the small stack once again. She moved away with careful deliberation, focussing intently on not dropping them perhaps?

When the last of her careful steps faded from hearing, Luther returned once again to the beckoning letter. Finally alone, he found, much to his surprise, that it was slightly more unpleasant than having her there. Possibly because the maid was still hovering nearby, just _waiting _for him to do something wrong.

He spent a few more agonised moments staring at his letter before coming to an abrupt decision. He scratched two neat, inky lines through the 'Dear Father' and replaced it with this:

'_Elendriel,_

_Sorry if anyone was worried by my absence. Met strange people in pub, am now being paid to escort idiot to Cheydinhal. Should return soon. Too scared to write to father. Please tell him something believable if he asks? Will write again when we reach civilisation._

_Your friend,_

_L.T.'_

Satisfied, he folded it carefully and sealed it. Relegating it into the bottom of a small pack he had bought for travelling. He didn't want to have to see it, change his mind again and write fifty more trial letters before the morning when he could get someone to courier it. He'd just about endured enough mental anguish for one day, by his estimate at least, and he hoped that whatever power was out there to make him suffer would at least consent to let him have the rest of the night off.

It was with extreme relief, therefore, that he would later drift off to sleep, the looming presence of the next morning cheerfully forgotten.

-----

Belle blinked in the first few shafts of pale sunlight that streamed through the small patches of window visible through the pane of grime. She hadn't slept much. Usually she would have gone to bed after a round of sparring with Solya, or, failing that, some hours in the practice rooms alone. The thought of Solya made her give a little twinge of sadness for the woman who had been so kind to her. Leaving would be difficult. But, the outside world awaited. And she owed it to herself to at least try to survive in it, if only for a little while.

So far, all seemed to be going quite well. Everything was delightfully unfamiliar. The shock and the excess energy she carried, combined with the anticipation of this new direction of her life, had needed little encouragement from her to result in a sleepless night.

Her imagination calmly trickled over a myriad of possibilities.

She was interrupted, giving a small start and unconsciously reaching for the weapon that should have been hanging at her waist, as the door to her room burst open with unnecessary force.

"Good morning!" Julian bellowed with indecent enthusiasm as he materialised in her doorway. The knight was decked out in full, clanking as he moved in his bright steel plate mail, silver sword at his side. He also seemed decidedly more groomed than he had the night before.

He gave her a slow grin before disappearing and repeating the 'good morning' process with the room net door. "Guess what just happened!"

The bleary-eyed mage emerged from the depths of his room, staggering a little in his not-quite awakened state. "Your knights came back?" he guessed, adding a yawn to the end of his sentence.

A shadow briefly passed over Julian's face. He managed to look tragic, wronged, victimised and furious all at once.

"_No_."

Luther turned wordlessly to return to his room, prevented from falling back into sleep where he stood only by automatic intervention from the knight. "Get up!" Julian cried in exasperation, shaking the mage to punctuate the space between each word. At Luther's lack of enthusiasm he continued on, without so much as a dent in his near-perpetual brightness. "Come on, man!" Julian gave him a winding, friendly slap on the back, "Yesterday you were up before me!"

"Yesterday? Julian, yesterday I didn't sleep _at all_. Which was _your fault_, if you remember. Would you like me to recount the experience?"

The knight's eyes darted helplessly towards Belle for a moment before shaking his head.

"Really? Kept you up _all night _did he?" Luther's favourite Orcish maid muttered with sneering innuendo as she passed through, sweeping lazily. The mage turned an angry beetroot shade while attempting to look as though he hadn't heard her.

Julian, being as immune to jokes made at his expense as he was to sarcasm continued on with no hint that he had understood. He probably hadn't.

"But anyway! It's a surprise for both of you, and you have to be awake to see it!"

"What is it?" Belle asked slowly.

"I'm not going to just _tell _you, or it wouldn't be a _surprise._" The knight said in mildly amused frustration.

Luther's expression rearranged itself into one of dread. "I don't actually like surpr-"

He ignored Luther and added as an afterthought. "We'll be leaving - once you've had the opportunity to thank me of course - so you should get ready for the road too."

Belle swiftly located the few plates of iron armour she had bought the day before for the journey, strapping them neatly over her loose blouse and mail skirt. They were as light as she could find, but she still didn't much like the prospect of taking a long journey on foot in them.

Seeming to have resigned himself to his fate, beside her, Luther gathered up the few possessions he had been able to afford. He had still been forced to borrow clothing from Julian, so the shirt he wore, which had been intended for someone far broader of shoulder than he was, kept sliding down and uncovering slightly embarrassing expanses of limb. He grumbled as he shrugged his leather armour on over this. His sword was Julian's spare.

"What about breakfast?" Luther asked in a grudging little voice.

"Oh, I had breakfast hours ago." The knight waved dismissively.

Belle surprised herself by speaking up, even if it was in a voice most of the unpractised would have struggled to hear at all. "I think Luther meant breakfast for the two of us… We haven't eaten yet."

"Oh, that's right!" the knight beamed and withdrew a paper package that turned out to contain sweetrolls. As Luther gratefully fell on one, Belle stood and gave a few experimental movements in her new armour. Satisfied, she slid her mace into it's loop at her hip.

"So," Luther asked, still retaining his sarcasm through a muffled mouth of sweetroll, "Where is this… surprise?" Food tended to have a very slightly cheering effect on him.

"Just follow me, my brave companions, and all will become clear!" The knight cried, sweeping dramatically down the staircase, with a knowing twinkle in his eyes.

"I hate it when people do that." Luther mumbled in a slightly disgruntled tone.

-----

The Imperial woman gathered up her possessions, slinging them over her shoulder in her pack and preparing to follow what she decided, for lack of a more fitting term, to think of as her new employer.

He chattered aimlessly as she shadowed him, and she found it was mildly reassuring to have the constant hum of his voice to listen to.

This was not how Luther would have described it. Instead the mage hung back in wariness staring fixedly at a space in the distance, occasionally remembering to lament the fact that he hadn't had any time to fix his hair.

Belle became a little more curious as they passed through the East gate of the city. A bridge would lead them across the large body of water that separated the Walls of the Imperial City from the outside world. The mage answered her thoughts as he called out to their implacable leader.

"Julian, sorry to interrupt, but where are we going?" the mage asked nervously. After a few more hesitant moments he added to himself, "And was there always a bridge to span this side of the…?"

"Not much further!" was the cheerful response, as the small group drew level with a rickety stall. Two ragged horses stared out with baleful eyes. Luther felt so sorry for them he considered giving them the last of his sweetroll.

Julian caught him looking. "Do you like him?"

The scrawny chestnut's intelligent eyes sharpened a little as it strove to make itself appear even more world-worn and pathetic, all the while eyeing Luther's coveted sweetroll.

"… It reminds me of me." Luther said a tad wistfully as he gave in to fate and passed it his breakfast.

"That's good. Because it's yours!" Julian beamed.

"…" Luther couldn't quite figure out if the knight was being serious or not, and opted for cautious silence.

"Is this the surprise?" Belle asked gently.

"Yup! Well, the price of them kind of has to come out of your salaries… But better that than walking to Cheydinhal right? Should be faster too, the guy said they were practically racehorses!" he said with habitual brightness.

Enlightenment dawning, Luther asked in a flat voice. "How much did you pay for them, Julian? Just out of curiosity."

"Just under five thousand septims." Julian revealed smugly.

"_Five Thousand? For these!?" _Even to the mage's inexperienced eye it was obvious that while you could, theoretically, race the horses, it wouldn't be sensible to race them against other horses. At least, ones that were alive.

The Chestnut gave him a reproving look and refused to stand by him any more, retreating into the depths of the stall.

"_And where did you even get that kind of money?"_ The Breton raged on.

"Well, there _was _my prize money. And you can't forget, a hero always has a mysterious source of funds." Julian felt it gave more dignity to his position if he didn't mention that his mysterious funds were mostly courtesy of care packages from his mother. "And the dealer said it was the best deal I would get in the whole city!"

"_You listened to the dealer?"_

His outburst was met by mild confusion, and vague concern "Are you alright? You sound kind of upset."

The Breton took a few calming breaths before continuing. "I think that you were overcharged."

The knight gave him a look that said clearly that he was humouring him. "I respect your opinion Luther, but I'm sure that you're mistaken."

Belle wandered unobtrusively towards the other horse as the two men continued their one-sided argument. It was lighter than the other, a sort of bay colour. And while it didn't have the enterprising, rodent-like intelligence of the chestnut, it seemed a good deal more friendly, leaning in to nuzzle the Imperial woman as she cautiously reached out to touch it's neck.

"Have you _ever _bought a horse, no, make that _anything _before?"

"Well… Elion usually handles the troupe's finances…" the knight began awkwardly.

Luther found that he wasn't surprised.

"I may not be an expert on the finer points of horse-rearing, but it doesn't take a great deal of experience to see that these particular specimens will probably die on the road, and won't even have enough meat on them to be…" he searched for a delicate way to put it, "Recycled."

Julian looked thoughtful for just a moment as he took in the scrawny frames of the two doleful horses.

"… We could feed them?"

"They aren't _worth_ what it would take to feed them! Especially not after what you paid for them! I wouldn't pay that for a _good _horse!"

An unfamiliar giggle silenced them briefly. Belle looked up in embarrassment as she saw both of them were looking at her oddly.

"… I like her." She mumbled in explanation.

The horse, to Luther's eyes, looked smug.

Julian smiled and then turned sheepishly to Luther. "I know you don't like them…" he said sadly, "… I just thought it would be a nice thing to do." The knight's face fell, brown eyes widening, in silent and unintentional reproof.

Feeling like a sadist, Luther decided that, for the sake of the first leg of this journey at least, the horses weren't so bad after all.

He gave a quiet sigh and tried to look sincere.

"I'm sorry... I didn't mean to sound ungrateful. I do… _appreciate _them. Honestly."

The knight cheered visibly. "So, you really do like them? Really?" At the other end of the stall, Belle nodded slowly, a tiny smile forming.

Luther looked from Julian to his horse, who was still sulking.

"Yes." He mumbled.

His horse, appeased, trotted over to the already exhausted Breton.

Belle observed as Luther gingerly hoisted himself up onto the horse. As it failed to buckle underneath him and die where it stood, she saw him relax, very slightly.

Now, quite confident of the theory behind it, she tried to lift herself up onto her own horse. She stuck her foot in the dangling loop thing attached to the seat thing and pushed herself up. She squeaked in fear as the loop seemed to give way, causing the whole seat thing to rotate and trying to send her ground-wards. She scrabbled for a hold, but was relieved of the need for this, when Julian took hold of her waist and lifted her neatly off of the mildly offended animal. Some strap tightening appeared to take place, faster than she could follow what was happening, and once again she was being lifted. This time onto the horse's back. With extreme reluctance she placed her foot in the loop. This time it held, and she found herself sitting uncertainly in the seat-thing. Saddle. That's right…

"Just grip with your thighs." The knight instructed patiently.

Belle clenched fearfully.

"Umm, you don't have to crush it, just like… grip. And these are reins." He tried to nudge something into her whitening fingers.

"… You hold these." He prompted.

She thought she did rather a good job of not falling off screaming. Luther kept probing with questions, though. He seemed to be under the impression that she had _forgotten_ how to ride, and was quite intrigued by the idea. Belle had the sneaking suspicion that she had never known. He seemed genuinely interested in her story, and what he referred to as her condition. Most other people she had met had given up pretty rapidly, so it was a strange experience for her, and he kept saying things about it being an 'irregular case of amnesia'. And she had seen him making notes in a book where the pages were blank, apart from entries made in the mages own spidery handwriting.

He ceased his questioning though, when Julian reappeared. It seemed that the knight had disappeared in order to fetch his own mount. It was a reasonably impressive-looking white charger, _very _knight-in-shining-armour. Even if it was sort of grey and whiskery and overweight…

"This is Veritallaeus." He said proudly as they all set off at a stoic walking pace along the Blue Road for Cheydinhal. "He was my older brother's."

"That's nice." Luther said vaguely. "Isn't that a bit of a mouthful though?"

"Well, actually, he only answers if you call 'Mr. Waffles' anyway." Julian said meekly.

"… Mr. Waffles?"

"I have younger sisters." The knight responded defensively, colour rising in his cheeks.

They carried on without broaching the subject again.

-----

Luther especially was quite pleasantly surprised when nothing particularly untoward happened on the way to Cheydinhal. There _had _been a Mudcrab, but Julian had made sure that it wouldn't be causing trouble for unwary travellers anymore. He appeared to be labouring under the delusion that they should have been impressed. Belle had just quietly wondered if the all the shouting and flailing his sword arm dangerously close to her horse had been necessary. Luther had just been staggered that Julian had managed to injure himself. It had taken around thirty seconds for the mage to deal with the actual 'wounds', and ten more minutes for Julian to open his eyes.

Belle hadn't been sure what to expect from the journey, but did enjoy the scenery. The scenery had helped her distract herself from the horrid lurching sensation that arose from riding her steadily plodding horse.

Julian hadn't really thought it through. He found this happened quite a lot.

The journey hadn't taken as long as expected for somewhere as far-away sounding as _Cheydinhal, _you know, a whole other _county. _It maybe had something to do with their unbelievable luck as far as not getting ambushed on the road was concerned, the slave-driving pace that Julian set and the fact that they had eaten in the saddle. Such trivial diversions as lunch breaks had no chance at delaying the great Sir Julian Artellian!

Actually, night had not yet fallen when the gates of Cheydinhal were finally before them. Upon their approach they swung slowly open. A scrawny watchman emerged from a shadowed alcove with the slightly guilty but totally determined to ignore the circumstances look of one who has been exploiting the quieter stretches of his shift to have a quick smoke. Luther started towards the promised land of cobbled streets and lights and warm beds, bliss slowly suffusing his weary face. He was halted in his tracks by the knight, who took the opportunity to clear his throat importantly. The watchman looked up and Julian, satisfied he was being paid an acceptable amount of attention, began.

"I would ask you, good sir, to please direct me to the lodgings" he paused dramatically, continuing on with more than a little distaste, carefully pronouncing their name to have no capital letters in it. "In which the_ knights of the thorn_ are located."

The guard's face took on a weary, 'Oh bollocks, Not Another One' sort of cast before sighing, "One of them are you?" he pointed and the eyes of the three companions followed his hand. Julian immediately started off. The Imperial woman could hear the mage mumbling under his breath. He didn't seem to be trying terribly hard to cover it up actually. Then again, instead of muttering curses about his usual favourite subject, Julian, he was repeating 'soon, soon, it will all be over soon' and other such soothing mantras to himself.

The mumbled commentary from Luther persisted all the way to the lodge, though, admittedly, it hadn't been terribly far away at all.

It was a large building, but not a terribly intimidating one. All crafted of timber washed with lavender, gentle runs of morning glory spilling from every windowsill, crack and crevice. Warm light seeped into the twilight from its homely windows.

Spoiling the idyllic scene for Luther was the sound of rowdy drunken knights from within.

"I'll wait out here." He said dully.

Julian smiled, the grim face he had been wearing on the way to the lodge evaporating in the wake of his overwhelming optimism. "Worry not, brave companion. We will be but a moment!"

Belle dealt with this announcement with her usual fortitude. Luther found he was grateful she was there. If nothing else, she could fulfil the role of tag-along at least as well as he could.

They were searching for a place to tie the horses when Julian leaned in to ask Luther's advice. This in itself was pretty odd, as far as the mage could see, but the subject matter was even stranger.

"What do you think I should say to them?"

"Who?"

"The knights of the thorn!"

He couldn't see the other man's face, but it still made him stop in wonderment. "You want _my opinion?_"

"I did ask." He replied slowly.

Luther floundered, "Uh, I don't know. The anecdote about the woman with the jewelled breasts seemed to go over pretty well back in the Imperial City…"

"I meant more along the lines of 'Halt Villains!' that sort of stuff. It always sounds better with big words, you know? And you're good at those so…"

The mage sighed agitatedly, "Just go with what you feel is most appropriate at the time, Julian."

It was then that the front door to the lodge swung open. The sounds of partying briefly intensified before it was shut behind the figure that had just emerged from the glow of inebriated good cheer taking place inside. Julian let out a jovial roar of recognition as stray light from the windows revealed the face of the young man.

"Elion!"

Elion turned fearfully at the sound of his name, eyes growing wide as they settled on the form of his leader.

"Sir!" he started before being engulfed in Julian's grip, the older knight ruffling the younger's with big-brotherly force. He was slight enough of stature that Julian found no challenge in restraining him, despite his strained complaints about his rapidly dissipating sense of dignity.

"Good to see you again!" Julian clapped him on the back, to sounds of spluttering and choking from the younger man, and released him.

He was pale and mousy, eyes nearly hidden behind a mop of unruly hair. It wasn't quite enough to conceal the frustrated knitting of his brow, however. Luther had to concede, he would have been pretty embarrassed in that particular situation too, especially in front of a group of strangers. He felt kind of bad for him.

"You too, Sir." Elion muttered.

"And, of course! You haven't met my friend's here! The lovely lady is Belle, and this is Luther."

"Hello." The young knight mumbled nervously.

Belle attempted a smile and Luther managed to give a vague greeting before Julian quickly mowed over both of them.

"We were hoping to find somewhere to put our mounts, Elion, you can take them for us, right?" Julian gave one of his dazzling smiles, lifting Belle's reins clean out of her hands and transferring them to the knight's before any sort of protest could possibly be mustered. "Would you feed them for us too? I need to have a _talk _with this order of the thorn or whatever..." His hand on Belle's waist propelled her towards the door without any conscious decision on her part as Julian finalised his exit. "Just a moment, dear friends! And don't forget, Mr. Waffles will only drink spring water. Oh! And remember - don't give him any apples, they aren't good for his indigestion! But you knew that, didn't you Elion?"

The sound of drunken revelry once again rose and fell with the swinging of the door.

"Like he knows _anything _about the proper dietary needs of a horse." The younger knight sighed, knowing he was safely out of earshot.

…

"Does he do that to you as well?" Elion grumbled, tugging on the reins of Mr. Waffles a little harder than strictly necessary.

"Continuously." Luther added darkly.

-----

Belle found herself growing a little nervous as they proceeded into the lodge. Platters of food covered almost every surface; lush arrangements of fruit and steaming platters of meat alike. Any surface that was not laden with food was, instead, cluttered with bottles of wine or forgotten tankards of less sophisticated fare. The flies buzzed eagerly.

Men still capable of walking decently wandered past them, giving the occasional enthusiastic attempt at a salute. Belle sidled a little closer to her escort. If Julian was feeling at all nervous, he was doing a good job of hiding it. Then again, if she revised what she knew of the man, 'caution' or even 'sense' weren't usually principles that he actively abided by.

From what she could hear, and from what Julian seemed to just _know _from the moment they had stepped into the lodge, the centre of the activity seemed to be located down a stairwell into the basement. He led the way with considerable daring, despite the attempts of a knight posted at the basement door at slurring a request to present his invitation.

To her slight horror and vague admiration, Julian presented his invite with little ceremony.

His invite being a fist to the side of the man's head.

The man keeled over gently.

Her initial reaction was surprise that his punch had actually landed, but she wisely decided to keep this to herself. Then she almost asked if it had been really necessary but Julian, in this particular case, seemed to understand her thoughts.

"The bastards stole my knights." He grumbled petulantly, dusting off his hands and continuing onwards.

They had indeed assessed the location of the main event with some accuracy. In the basement, a more tavern-like arrangement had been set up. Barrels of ale lined the wall, and tables and benches were definitely in evidence, although most of the assembled knights appeared to be on the floor.

And not all of them were unconscious.

An extravagantly clad Dark elf sat at the head of a circle of bellowing red-faced knights. They appeared to be engaging in some kind of drinking game – some of the men and women back at the arena had done things like this on their days off. She had never joined in, but she knew roughly how it was supposed to go.

She knew, for example, that they weren't all supposed to go sort of quiet and stare at her. Most of them dismissed her as unimportant after a second or two and redirected their gazes at Julian, but one or two glances lingered, and she found herself growing uncomfortable. She wondered if she could somehow make her knightly escort notice, but he didn't seem to be paying her any attention at all.

"Greetings, fellow sirs!" Julian began, even going so far as a chivalric bow. "I came here-"

"Come now! We're all friends here, no need for _formalities." _The man grinned, raising his glass to his lips. "And besides, I'm sure none of us care why _you're_ here." He drawled, before directing an appraising look at Belle. She suffered under a few moments of this scrutiny before he gave a resigned little sigh. "… Not quitewhat I was hoping for, but I suppose we shall have to make do."

He stood with surprising ease, and moved swiftly to stand beside the startled girl, taking her hand to lead her back to the assembled group. "Please, do join us my dear!"

Julian's eyes narrowed. "Now see here!"

"Oh, of course. How _rude _of me not to introduce myself! I am Farwil Indarys. I am _sure _you have heard of me."

Had Luther been present, he might have been mildly horrified to realise that there were others out there who were as conceited as Julian.

Belle however was growing more and more panicked. It was… there were people looking at her. Not a strange sea of blurred colour like it was when she used to fight – actual people. And she wasn't sure if the man would let go of her if she asked. That was always the problem. You never knew if they were going to say no…

She tried to talk sense to herself, really tried. He hadn't hurt her. Yet. But he was holding her, and she didn't like it anymore and Julian wasn't saying anything. Would he help her if she asked him to? You never _did_ know what people were going to say. Or what they were going to do. That was why they made her nervous.

A growl started deep in her throat, and she wrenched her hand out of his grip.

The Dark Elf raised his hands in a bemused gesture of surrender. "No need to worry dear, you don't have to join us if you don't want to! I didn't realise our company was quite so deplorable!" He laughed, and the men laughed with him. Though she wasn't sure they had understood the joke. She hadn't. Still, she felt the embarrassment at her own stupid behaviour creeping in. She looked worriedly to Julian. He was looking at her as strangely as the others were.

"Nevertheless!" the Dunmer waved it away, sweeping reality to the side for his own convenience. Definitely a nobleman.

Vaguely, she wondered why she would know that.

"Would you care to elaborate on what you began to say earlier friend? Clearly you are not the bringer of the entertainment. My most _humble _apologies."

Julian dragged his eyes away from Belle, regaining some of his usual confidence in the process. He strode forward, bringing himself toe to toe with the man that had called himself Farwil. The nobleman raised an eyebrow at this display of impudence.

Julian may have stood head and shoulders above him, but there was something about the Dark Elf, he exuded authority. The type of authority that people were born to, raised with. He simply wasn't used to being challenged. With all the conviction he could muster, he exuded this in Julian's general direction.

Perhaps a little unluckily for him, Julian wasn't used to taking hints.

"You _stole _my men. They were waiting for me in that tavern. We were leaving for Kvatch the next morning! And you just came in and _took _them."

The Dunmer showed some teeth. It may have been a smile.

"… My mistake."

"Well then."

"Indeed."

"Well... Give them back, you!… You son of a Dreugh!"

"Ah!" the Dark Elf halted him with a condescending smile. "Your men can leave at whatever time they wish, of course. And as for this little dispute between you and me… Well, what's say we settle this like gentlemen?"

"How exactly do you suggest we _settle_ this?"

Farwil Indarys strode idly towards the place in which he had left his glass of wine. He swirled it in the bottom of the glass as he stared thoughtfully at the ceiling.

"Perhaps a… wager of some description?"

-

Elion pulled awkwardly at his hair as the mage stared absentmindedly back at the lodge.

"So…"

"He _said _that he was only going to be a minute." Luther muttered.

"… Yeah." Agreed the young knight with a sigh.

Everything paused.

"Sorry, what were you saying before?"

"Um, nothing really." Elion said quickly.

"Oh."

…

Luther was almost relieved when Belle came bursting through the door behind them, sending Elion sprawling on the ground. At least it relieved the tension of trying to hold a conversation with the nervous young knight. But Julian didn't seem to be with her.

"What happened?" he demanded, worriedly.

Belle looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

-

"Okay, the idea is…" the Dark Elf slurred, spilling very nearly the entirety of his most recent refill of wine into the hair of one of his knights. "Uhm, actually the man lost count. Well, passed out. So we need to start from the beginning…"

"But I _won._" Julian spluttered, blinking drunkenly.

"No, no. We definitiveishely lost count, so again. We have to start counting again. From the beginning… again."

"But I…" Julian yawned, sinking into an alcohol induced stupor.

"Jolly good." Farwil burbled before following his example.

-

"Oh."

"I'll keep an eye on him for tonight, if you like?" Elion suggested.

"Thank you." Luther smiled appreciatively; "Please drop something really heavy on his head tomorrow morning too, if you will?" he turned to Belle, who was looking at him as if she expected him to know what to do next.

"Um. So how about we go and find somewhere to stay?"

The Imperial woman nodded gratefully. She was a little pale, but she seemed to be perfectly fine. Apart from the way she kept staring off into space when he was trying to talk to her… Who _did_ that?

…

"Goodbye?" Elion murmured to the disappearing backs of the two travellers.


End file.
